


Paradox

by melody1987



Category: Equilibrium (2002)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody1987/pseuds/melody1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Susan Edwards is both a Cleric and Sense Offender. This is the story of her role in Father's downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is my first ever Equilibrium fanfic. I've always loved this film and have had a rough idea for this kind of story for a while, now, but never got round to actually writing it. Well, here's hoping it's worth it.
> 
> Any kudos/reviews are always greatly appreciated and I hope you enjoy reading :)

**1.**

_In the first years of the 21st century a third World War broke out. Those of us who survived knew mankind could never survive a fourth; that our own volatile natures could simply no longer be risked._

_So we have created a new arm of the law..._

_...the Grammaton Cleric, whose sole task it is to seek out and eradicate the true source of man's inhumanity to man._

_His ability to feel._

**~**

2072

It is a time of peace.

Crime has been eliminated. Murder, rape, paedophilia; these are words for acts long forgotten. Crimes of passion no longer exist, because the human race has eradicated anything even remotely resembling passion. Women are no longer subjects of the toxic masculinity displayed by their gender counterpart. Children are no longer the product of promiscuity, removing the need for orphanages and foster homes. Families are no longer broken by selfish impulse. People can walk the street at any time of day, free from fear of harm.

And, for that we thank Prozium. A drug that erases all traces of the very thing that makes human beings the creatures they are: emotion. No longer are people's lives ruled by anger, fear, greed, elation or desire. Instead, cold hard logic, sense and reason reign supreme.

Libria is now a place of order, a place of stability and a place of peace.

Except…it isn't.

Murder is still rampant. The only difference is that it is now sanctioned by the government and committed by Clerics, who slaughter anyone deemed guilty of Sense Offence. People may not _feel_ fear, but they are aware of the consequences for failing to obediently follow the "will" of Father. You can see it in the very depths of their eyes, whenever a Cleric walks by. Without even realising it, they are _scared_.

Of course, there are still those who rebel. That's the problem with totalitarianism. It tries to impose a one-size-fits-all lifestyle onto a species that is anything but, even if they do try to chemically suppress that individuality. The rebels are part of a movement known as the Resistance, comprised of men, women and, sometimes even children, who forgo their thrice daily doses of Prozium, in favour of experiencing the dizzying highs, as well as the terrible lows of human emotion. They collect art, music and film, wear perfume and cook the sort of food that would leave your taste buds singing with pleasure. They are the enemies of the state and it is a Cleric's job to hunt them down and eradicate them.

 _My_ job.

I, Susan Edwards, am a Cleric of the Tetragrammaton. I have been sanctioned by the government of Libria to ensure the stoic existence upon which our great nation is founded continues unthreatened. I do not feel.

At least, that is the lie I present to the world, the mask I wear. In truth, I am as guilty as any of the Sense Offenders whose ashes line the basements of the Palace of Justice. At the age of seventeen, I refused the dose and the past eleven years have allowed me to perfect my act. It would be a very skilled Cleric indeed who managed to expose me.

Mediocrity is key. I am good at my job, but not quite good enough to earn any particular praise. I am physically ordinary and ensure I do not do anything that would garner attention. I simply go to work, go home, rinse, repeat. The only treat I allow myself is a bi-monthly visit to the headquarters of the Resistance, if only for a couple of hours of freedom from the restrictive conformity we are all forced to obey.

It is nice to actually _smile_ when Jurgen, one of the leaders of the Resistance, asks how I am. In the process of pinning back my blonde hair into its typical tight chignon at the nape of my neck, I turn and, unable to speak due to the hair grips held between my lips, nod in reply.

"I'm alright," I finally say, inspecting my appearance, before turning to face him fully. "You?"

"Nothing new to report," he says, his lips curving upwards on one side. It's his way of teasing me, giving the line I often have to provide to my superiors.

"Hilarious," I retort. "Although, today I _will_ have something to report."

"The raid?"

I purse my lips. "Yeah, the _big_ one. They're expecting a lot of resistance, which is why they want _three_ Clerics present, rather than just two or one."

A hand grips each of my biceps and Jurgen dips his head down to catch my gaze, which I try to keep rooted to the floor.

"It's not your fault," he insists. "You did all you could to keep them off Seamus' trail."

"I could have done more," I mutter, still not looking at him.

"Not without risk to your position, Susan." Jurgen hooks a finger underneath my chin to tilt my face upwards and my eyes finally relent, looking right into his. "Without you, we wouldn't have even been aware of it. At least Seamus has been given a little time to prepare."

For his own death, perhaps. I don't say that out loud, knowing it'd only upset the man before me. Instead, I try to mimic some of his positivity.

"At least Errol will be there."

The hinges of the door whine behind us and Errol Partridge, fellow Grammaton Cleric and relative newcomer to the world of emotions, enters.

"Speak of the Devil," Jurgen quips.

"My ears were burning," Errol chuckles, before focusing on me. "Are you ready?"

I nod and my arms are released from Jurgen's reassuring grip. The day cannot be put off any longer, so goodbyes are said, before I follow Errol out of the room.

"You seem ever more tense than I," Errol remarks, as we make our way out of the Freedom reading Room. The irony of using a place for spreading government propaganda as the secret entrance to the Underground is lost on no one.

"I don't like Preston," I admit, trying to suppress the involuntary shudder the name evokes. "The man reminds me of a shark and, with what we're about to do, I can't imagine having to stand beside anyone worse."

"I know," Errol agreed. "But a job like this requires the "best"."

There was no need to gesticulate the quote marks; his voice did it for him and I rolled my eyes in contempt. Once upon a time, I looked up to men like John Preston, wanted nothing more than to emulate them, but, once I had realised just what he and others like him were trying to take away, the admiration had quickly turned sour. I know that the current situation isn't necessarily the fault of Preston, or any other Librian, for that matter, that they no more understand the world than a newborn child, but, having to watch what they do, day after day, so cold and unfeeling, makes it very hard for my skin not to crawl in their presence.

"I just hope Seamus can forgive us."

I say nothing, but my mind replays the images of all the lives I have seen lost in the name of Father's brand of peace. It makes me feel sick.

**~**

The Palace of Justice stands tall and proud, looming over its citizens like a dark, imperious cloud, judging all who pass. And there, waiting patiently and as still as a statue, stands one of the most terrifying men I have ever encountered.

John Preston.

Having spent most of my life surrounded by Grammaton Clerics, the anxiety quietly bubbling below the surface has no right to be there, but there is something about the man that sets my nerves on edge. Perhaps it is the hawk-like expression in his eyes, which seem to absorb every minute detail, or the sharp angles of his face, giving him an almost ethereal countenance. Perhaps it is simply the reputation that precedes him. He is rumoured to be able to spot a sense offender, simply by looking at them. Luckily, my interactions with Preston have been few and far between and, when in his presence, I have refrained from doing anything that would warrant his unwanted attention. I pray that today will be the same.

"Good morning, Preston," Errol says, keeping his voice as flat and monotone as possible. "As punctual as ever."

Preston gives his partner a quick nod of greeting, before offering another in my direction. "I see Edwards is with you."

"I was ensuring she was fully apprised of the situation," Errol lies smoothly.

The intense green gaze settles upon me and it requires quite a bit of mental strength to withstand it. "And are you?"

"Yes," I reply, my voice quiet but steady.

"Good," he says, turning to open one of the back passenger doors of the pristine white car beside him.

Errol enters next and I follow, trying my utmost to keep that bubble of anxiety in the pit of my stomach as small and quiet as possible.


	2. 2

**2.**

The raid is already underway, by the time the white car carrying Preston, Partridge and I arrives at the scene. Several black SUVs are parked in front of the old derelict house and men clad in black leather coats and bulletproof vests surround the building, weapons aimed at every window. More enforcers are inside the building, clearing the way for us.

I make a point of avoiding all eye contact with Errol. In fact, I aim to avoid his gaze for the entire raid, if possible; it’ll only make what we’re doing that much harder. Preston, of course, is eager to exit the car the second it slows to a stop, those hungry eyes taking everything in. Errol climbs out slowly and his posture reveals his inner struggle. I want to snap at him to keep his feelings in check and find myself getting frustrated, as I know that is impossible.

The desire to remain in the vehicle is almost overwhelming, but I manage to force my limbs to move. This is going to happen, I tell myself and there is nothing now that can stop it.

Unless…

No, I cannot even entertain that thought. It has been made very clear many, many times the importance of maintaining my cover. However much it hurts, this raid has to be allowed to continue and the people occupying the building ahead, many of them dear friends, must be allowed to sacrifice themselves to the cause.

With a quick mental shake, I shut the door of the car and inhale deeply, before turning to face my fellow Clerics.

One of the enforcers calls to us, informing us that we may enter the building. Preston doesn’t hesitate and I allow Errol to take his customary place beside his partner, before following closely behind.

The hallways are dimly lit, as many of the lights were taken out by the enforcers, leaving only enough illumination to just about see where we are going. I am aware of the three bodies lining the floor, but I keep looking straight ahead, refusing to identify them, as it will only be too painful.

We three Clerics make quite an intimidating trio, two clad in black, the third-me-in dark grey, with guns at our sides. There is no hesitation in our movements and everyone makes room for us. Once upon a time, I relished the power and respect my profession afforded me. Now, it makes me want to hit the wall.

We come to a corridor, where a large group of enforcers are gathered, all focused on the closed door ahead. An enforcer approaches us

“Cleric,” he begins, addressing Preston, the obvious leader of our deathly trio. “Lights out. Maybe more than a dozen inside.”

Preston has already assessed the situation within seconds and his calm, quiet voice is brimming with the confidence that extensive experience provides. “When the door's down, blow the bulbs,” he instructs the enforcer.

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of multiple guns cocking echoes off the grey walls and Preston is given the all-clear to proceed. He immediately sprints into action, hurtling towards the closed door, before drop kicking it open and crouching atop it, as it slides into the room. As requested, the lights go out and Preston disappears into the darkness. Silence falls.

At this moment, I can feel Errol’s eyes on me and am unable to resist any longer. My gaze meets his briefly and I see all the pain and regret coursing through my entire body, mirrored in his soft green irises.

Our attention is caught by the sound of gunfire and, judging by the rapidity and precision, it is clear that Preston is hard at work. In mere moments, an entire room of living, breathing people is reduced to one. My heart suddenly weighs a tonne and breathing is just that little bit harder.

Walking into the remnants of the massacre, without displaying an ounce of emotion was probably one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Beneath the gloves, my knuckles are white, as I try to expel my fury and loathing through the grip on my guns. It is so very, _very_ tempting to simply raise them and shoot John Preston dead right where he stands, to see how much he enjoys being on the receiving end of his beloved gun kata. I have to silently repeat Jurgen’s words over and over to myself, in order to calm myself down.

This day is almost enough to drive me back to Prozium, if only to expel the weight of the crippling misery overwhelming my entire body. So many lives lost today, so many good people needlessly murdered, to push the agenda of a monster, who has the gall to refer to himself as _Father_. If we are his children, then this is one fucked up family.

During the return journey to the Tetragrammaton, I am furiously silent. Thankfully, emotionless people make for poor small talkers, so my stillness is not questioned. I am sure Preston is very satisfied with the day’s results and it will only serve to further elevate him in the eyes of our glorious leader.

The Cleric’s voice manages to cut through my bitter reverie. “Why didn't you just leave it for the evidentiary team to collect and log?”

My eyes look up, wondering who he is talking to and spot Errol’s left hand immediately go to an object hanging out of his coat pocket.

“They miss things sometimes,” Errol explains, removing the object, revealing it to be a small book. He quickly thumbs through a couple of pages, before returning it to his pocket. “I thought I'd take it down myself. Get it done properly.”

It takes every inch of self control I own not to let my eyes widen in horror. What the Hell is he _doing_?

“How long, Preston, until all this is gone?” Errol continues. “Until we've burned every last bit of it?”

Preston considers the question for a brief moment, before answering. “Resources are tight. We'll get it all eventually.”

I almost hold my breath, wondering what my idiotic friend might decide to say next, wondering why he is doing this. Yes, the raid was traumatic, but Errol is as close to revealing himself as a sense offender as it is possible to be. As the minutes roll by and the silence in the car lingers, I feel my heartbeat slowly regulate and I pray to whatever deity might listen that Errol may have regained control of himself.

As we travel further into the city, echoes of Father’s voice can be heard spewing from speakers dotted throughout the streets. It is the usual propaganda and I have long since learnt to tune it out. Suddenly, the droning voice is cut off by an alarm and the car comes to a stop. Time to dose. From my right pocket, I retrieve a small black case and open it to reveal several vials of amber liquid. Removing one of the vials, I insert it into a pneumatic syringe. Unexpectedly, Preston’s voice sounds yet again.

“Every time we come from the Nethers to the city, it reminds me why we do what we do.”

It is unclear to whom he is speaking, but I do not trust myself to open my mouth just yet, so leave the response to Errol.

“It does?”

My eyes immediately fly up to my friend, before flitting to the dark haired Cleric beside him.

“I beg your pardon,” Preston says, having caught the tone of his partner’s voice.

Errol, clearly having realised his error, quickly injects his faux Prozium, before repeating himself. “It does.” This time, Errol’s voice is flat and monotone, as it should have been the first bloody time.

Injecting myself, I peel my eyes away from the pair opposite and stare out the window. It is all I can do to keep myself from lurching forward and wringing Errol’s neck.

The car starts moving again and I count down the seconds until we have reached our destination and I can put as much distance between myself and the rest of the world as possible. Outside the Tetragrammaton, I’m ready to near enough jump out of the car and run away, but Preston’s utterance of my name stops me. I have to force myself to turn and meet his gaze.

“You did well today,” he says. “I will be sure to commend your efforts in my report.”

If I didn’t feel sick before, his praise ensures I do now.

“Thank you, Cleric,” I manage to force out, before giving a small nod and turning to walk away.

I can feel a figure following me and do not need to turn to know who it is. We do not communicate, but both turn the corner in perfect synchronisation, to enter an alleyway that is free from prying eyes and ears. Neither of us stops walking, but Errol’s pace increases until he is walking beside me.

“ _It does?_ ” I angrily impersonate Errol, as my feet continue to pound the concrete. “Why didn’t you just replace the syringe with your fucking gun and blow your brains out right then and there? Save us all the trouble!”

“Susan,” he begins, but I interrupt.

“You realise the trouble you’re now in? There is no way any Cleric would let that slide, but _him_? You’re going to need a very big shovel to dig your way out of this one.”

“I will fix it,” he assures me, although I hear the doubt in his tone.

“You’d better,” I demand. “I’ve got enough people to mourn, today. I don’t want to add you to that list.”

Had I known how the day would conclude, I would have ended things differently. My voice would have been gentler, my words kinder. I would have embraced him and said a proper goodbye. Sadly, it wasn’t until the next day that the consequences for Errol’s mistake were revealed and his passing became another lump of coal to fuel the fire of remorse burning inside.


	3. 3

**3.**

“Susan Edwards. You know why you are here, I presume?”

In the centre of a large room, located in the headquarters of the Tetragrammaton, sits a man, looking to be roughly in his late thirties, clean shaven, with slicked back dark hair. The chair seating him is massively oversized, making him look almost childlike in comparison and the desk before him is equally big, crafted from glistening steel. The whole room is decorated in the same colour, if decoration can indeed be the correct word to use. Like every single room in every single building in Libria, minimalism and practicality are key, so, for the most part, the room feels rather empty.

It achieves the desired effect of intimidation and alienation, when you are standing alone before the man in the large chair. There is nothing to distract his eye from you and no way to hide from his scrutiny. It’s not the most comfortable experience of my life, so far, I must admit.

I have never been called to the chambers of Vice-Council Dupont, before. There was never a reason to be. As previously explained, I never did or said anything to attract anyone’s attention, but, unfortunately, that didn’t stop _others_ from bringing attention my way. Having had only a few hours to prepare for this meeting, I feel anything but prepared.

“I believe so, Sir,” I say. Although nothing’s actually been said to me, I have a rather good hunch as to the topic of this conversation.

“And why do think you are here?” he asks, his beady eyes watching me, seeming to never blink, never lose focus. Those eyes are even harder to meet than Preston’s.

“The investigation into Errol Partridge,” I answer.

It’s hard to speak his name, as his death was only brought to my attention when the enforcer arrived to escort me to Dupont. There was no time to even shed a tear, as I quickly readied myself to leave my apartment and enter the black, unmarked SUV. Grief had to wait.

“That is correct, Cleric,” Dupont says.

He leaves a long pause, choosing to simply scrutinise me instead. Yes, give me Preston any day.

“You have worked with him several times, I see,” he continues, his eyes leaving me to quickly scan an open file on his desk.

“That is correct.”

“And, before yesterday’s raid, when did you last work together?”

“A little over four months ago, to aid in my arrest of a family of sense offenders.”

“Whilst working alongside Cleric Partridge,” Dupont’s gaze returns to me. “Did you, at any point notice anything that would suggest he had ceased his dose?”

“No, Sir,” I lie. “He was as a Cleric should be.”

There is another pause, as Dupont continues to watch me, those eyes seeming to bore right through to my very soul. It is unnerving and I find myself questioning whether he is already aware of my dirty little secret, whether this is just a game for him to play and I am going to end the day in a cell. I can feel the tension mounting second by second and the urge of flight is strong, but I fight against it. I keep telling myself that there is no reason for him to suspect me and, if any real evidence had been found, I wouldn’t even be in this building, but in the Palace of Justice, getting interrogated by one of my colleagues.

“As a Cleric should be,” Dupont softly parrots and it is hard to know if he is mocking me. “You, of course, know exactly how a Cleric should be.”

I have no idea how to take his comment, or if there is anything I can-or should-say in response. A suspicion that this meeting isn’t so much about Errol, but a means of investigating _me_ creeps into my mind.

“What is the role of a Cleric, Edwards?” he queries.

To murder innocent souls for the “crime” of being human. Of course, this is not said aloud. Instead, I opt for a more traditional description.

“A Cleric’s role is to safeguard the continuity of this great society. To serve Libria.”

“Very good, Cleric,” Dupont congratulates me, once again reading through what I can safely assume is my employment file. “And I can see you are rather competent in this role. In fact, I have a report here from Cleric John Preston, commending your efforts during yesterday’s raid.”

A piece of paper is pulled from the file and held up for me to see, although it is too far away for me to actually read. After a long moment, the paper returns to the file and Dupont’s gaze, if possible, intensifies.

“I imagine you are feeling rather proud of yourself, Cleric.”

That was _definitely_ a test.

“Proud, Sir?” I query. I haven’t remained under the radar for the past eleven years for nothing.

“To have earned the respect of such a high ranking officer.”

“I feel nothing, but a sense of duty to my work and, if it has incurred the praise from a respected fellow Cleric, it simply means that I am performing to the expected standard.”

“As a Cleric should be,” Dupont adds and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a hint of sarcasm to his tone.

“Yes, Sir,” I agree, working ridiculously hard to keep my own sass at bay.

“Which brings us back to Errol Partridge.” Dupont’s gaze is lowered, as he closes my file. “Of course, as a Cleric, your job is to identify and arrest sense offenders. Can you tell me how you came to miss the fact that a fellow Cleric was no longer abiding by Father’s law?”

“The only conclusion I can come to,” I reply, after a moment of consideration. “Is that, either his cessation of the dose was a recent development, or his deception was so well executed that it required a Cleric of higher rank and skill to expose him.”

“Indeed.” Dupont’s eyes are on me again, however, their intensity has diminished slightly, which I can only hope means my answers have satisfied him. “Do you feel you are in need of more training?”

“Perhaps,” I say carefully, surprised to actually feel a hint of positivity creeping into the day. If I am given training, it means I will have to participate in fewer raids. The thought is actually rather blissful, as it is always a terrible thing to do, watching your friends suffer and knowing there is nothing you can do to prevent it. Knowing that, at least some of them, will truly believe you are one of the mindless machines sent to hunt them down. It took many years for me to be able to go to sleep after raids, without having cried my way there.

“You are not currently assigned a partner, are you?”

“No, Sir.”

I keep my gaze level with Dupont and can almost see the cogs turning.

“Then I think it shall be very easy to reassign you, Edwards.”

I nod and my body begins to ready itself to leave the room. Unfortunately, Dupont hasn’t yet finished with me.

“Since you made such a positive impression on Cleric Preston,” he says and any positivity I began to feel immediately evaporates. “Perhaps it would be good for you to shadow him for a while. He is one of our best and shall provide an excellent example for you to follow. We already have a replacement for his former partner, but it shouldn’t hurt for you to work alongside them.”

I want to hit something.

“Does that sound agreeable to you, Cleric?” Dupont’s right eyebrow lifts ever so slightly, almost encouraging argument.

I reply without hesitation. “Absolutely.” What would be the point of trying to dissuade him? Any other Cleric would jump at the chance to work with Preston, so to appear uncertain would immediately seem suspect.

“Good. It shall be arranged immediately. Is there anything _you_ wish to discuss?”

“No, Sir.”

“Very well. You may leave.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

I give a curt nod, before turning and walking away. My blood is boiling and, once I have turned the corner and am out of Dupont’s sight, my fists clench at my sides, in the hope that it might dissipate a little of the fury raging inside. The emotions I have to work so hard to conceal are currently at war, all battling for dominance. I want nothing more than to run out of the building and scream at the top of my lungs, cry out against the terrible injustice happening to this world. I want to curl up in the corner of a room and just weep until my body runs dry. I want…I want to do something, _anything_ , but have to remain in this damned building, surrounded by dead eyed people, medicated into numbness.

Unfortunately, that is not possible, so I opt for the next best thing; the Kata Floor.

**~**

At seven pm, the door to my apartment flies open and I hurtle through it, heading for the bathroom. Falling to my knees, my head bows over the toilet and I release everything I have been holding in. The acid burns my throat, as I cough and splutter up the bile. I spend a considerable amount of time in that room and my stomach muscles are left protesting weakly by the end.

It was too much. The entire day has left me a puking, sobbing, grieving mess and, not for the first time, I entertain the notion of using one of those amber vials hidden away behind one of the tiles surrounding the shower. Just a few hours of numbness couldn’t hurt, could it?

I had thought myself to be coping reasonably well for most of the day. The session on the Kata Floor had certainly let off some steam and I felt better afterwards, but there were still many things running through my mind, which refused to be ignored. I had to concentrate especially hard to any conversations that came my way and, upon seeing John Preston, I was probably the closest I have ever come to breaking down and revealing myself as a sense offender.

I wanted to hit him, still do. No, I want to do more than just hit him. I want to batter him senseless, pummel his expressionless face into the ground and let him feel a fraction of the pain he has recently caused me. I don’t care if it isn’t his fault, if another man is truly to blame, Preston is within my grasp, an object I can actually touch and use to vent all my fury and frustration.

I try hard not to be the type who holds grudges, but, right now, I want nothing more than for Cleric John-fucking-Preston to know how it feels to lose someone he cares about.

The sickness has stopped, but the tears are still in full flow, as I sit on the bathroom floor, my head in my hands, as elbows rest on my knees. There is a small amount of anger reserved for Errol, for being such a complete imbecile the day before. My last words to him come back to haunt me:

_“I’ve enough people to mourn, today. I don’t want to add you to that list.”_

Could I have somehow prevented this? Was there some way I could have stopped Preston from killing him? Outfighting the Cleric was delusional, as he was a far better warrior than I could ever be. Killing appeared to come naturally to him. Perhaps if I had remained at Partridge’s side, there may have been some way for me to convince him not to go into the Nether that night, not to take with him that stupid fucking book!

Why _had_ he done it? Surely Preston’s suspicion was as easy for Errol to read, as it was I. There must have been some way for him to talk his way out of whatever accusations were laid at his feet.

I guess we’ll never know.

The tears are still falling, if in slightly smaller quantities, when a sound comes from the lounge. It is one that never fails to illicit disgust and, normally, I can simply block it out. Tonight, however, I am far too raw and vulnerable to ignore it.

“ _The later 20th century_ ,” Father begins, voice soft and condescending. “ _Saw the fortuitous and simultaneous rise of two synergistic political and psychological sciences. The first, the revolutionary precept of the hate crime_.”

It’s like listening to an adult speak to a child, which, I suppose, isn’t all that far from the truth. We are his children; mindless, thoughtless little drones, wandering the Earth, following the will of a man who believes he knows what is best for us. He speaks and we listen. He commands and we follow. Unquestioning. Unthinking. Unfeeling.

“... _a single inescapable fact --that mankind united with infinitely greater purpose in pursuit of war...than he ever did in pursuit of peace_.”

What would Father know of peace? Was this peace, to live in a world where a smile could leave you beaten in a cell? Where a kiss could have you burning in an incinerator? Where a book could lead to a bullet to the brain?

“... _there is a disease in the heart of man. Its symptom is hate. Its symptom is anger. Its symptom is rage. Its symptom is war. The disease is human emotion_.”

Hate. Anger. Rage. I was _well_ aware of the effects of those particular symptoms. The fact that none had yet died at my hand today was testament to my self control.

“ _Now we are at peace with ourselves, and humankind is one_.” Still that voice drones on, monotonously rambling and repeating itself, like an old broken record. “ _War is gone. Hate, a memory_.”

No, hate is certainly _not_ a memory. I am feeling it right now.

“ _We are our own conscience now. And it is this conscience that guides us to rate EC-10 for emotional content all those things that might tempt us to feel again...and destroy them. Librians, you have won. Against all odds and your own natures...you have survived_.”

Not everyone has survived. There are a great many Librians who have not lived to see the end of this day. Many didn’t even see the beginning. Without realising, I have left the bathroom, to stand in the archway that leads to the lounge. As I stand there, watching Father’s image, I see all those I have witnessed forfeit their existence in the name of freedom flash past my eyes. With each face, my sorrow grows, until the ghost of Errol’s smile remains to haunt me.

When it becomes too painful to bear any longer, my mind switches to the faces of all those responsible for those deaths. Enforcers, Clerics, brain dead citizens, they all have their parts to play, whether or not they are aware of what they’re doing. Then the faces disappear and my eyes are left watching the screen, watching the face of the person truly responsible for all that has happened.

My hand reaches for the nearest object, in this case one of my guns, and hurls it at the screen.

 

 


	4. 4

**4.**

The second the watch on my wrist strikes nine thirty, I am up and out of my apartment, ready to begin my first day shadowing Cleric Preston. To say I feel shitty is a ridiculous understatement, as my head still throbs after the emotional turmoil of the previous day. I feel reasonably in control, though and am certain I can remain cold and aloof in the face of whatever gets thrown at me today.

Errol’s replacement, Brandt is sat in the driving seat of a gleaming white car, having previously offered to collect me on his way to rendezvous with Preston. As I approach the car, I am greeted with something akin to a smile. Although uncommon, it is not unheard of for Librians to greet each other in such a way, although there is never any real emotion behind the expression. The same is true for Brandt, as his dark and inquisitive, yet still oddly lifeless eyes scan me. His clothing is the same dark grey as mine, meaning he has yet to reach the dizzying heights of being a First Class Cleric.

“Good morning, Edwards,” he says, as close to cheerful as a Cleric can get.

This sudden assault of positivity is unexpected, yet strangely refreshing. The eagerness of the young man is clear and I can tell he is happy with his placement. Well, he _would_ be, were it not for the Prozium.

I cannot say the same, myself, although Brandt’s presence may make things somewhat easier. I climb into the back seat and the Cleric ahead clearly requires no proper response from me, as he continues to talk.

“We were supposed to collect Preston from his home, but, apparently, there was an incident involving his interval, so we’re meeting him at Equilibrium, instead.”

So, the renowned Cleric isn’t perfect, after all, I muse, bitterly.

“I just hope the lines aren’t too much trouble,” Brandt remarks. “Today is going to be a busy day.”

He starts up the car and we drive off.

**~**

I spend the entire journey focusing all my energy on not wishing a terrible death upon John Preston. As we approach the Equilibrium building, I spot his unmistakable figure immediately. Despite wearing the same black uniform as every other Tetragrammaton employee, there is something about the man that makes him stand out. Perhaps it is my revulsion towards him, which allows me to find him easily in a crowd.

The car comes to a stop right beside the Cleric and Brandt winds down his window.

“More than punctual, Cleric. Hop in.”

I’m sure I hear a hint of adoration in the dark skinned Cleric’s tone and it makes me question my approval. The only thing worse than enduring Preston’s company, is suffering the company of one of his sycophants.

Preston silently climbs into the car and I keep my eyes down, fixing them to a point on the floor. I _will_ get through this. I was given a brief overview of what to expect for the day and our first stop is a raid in one of the more suburban areas of Libria. It is not an area known for trouble, but that would make it the perfect place for a sense offender to hide.

The closer we get to our destination, a feeling of dread starts to settle low in my stomach. I know this place and I know some of the people who live here. I begin to silently pray that we do not stop where I think we will. Anywhere but there…anyone but _her_.

I hear Brandt’s voice again and he is talking once more to his new partner. It really is a little like watching a puppy meet its new owner.

“How were the lines?” he asks, conversationally. This man definitely has quite a way to go, before he appropriates the more brooding manner of a high ranking Cleric. “I'm surprised you were able to get your interval and get out so quickly.”

“No, they're...they're fine today.”

The vehicle turns a corner and, through my window, I can see two black vehicles already parked outside a house a few buildings away, with enforcers stood to attention, guns ready. It is exactly as I feared and I know this will be yet another awful day. Just how awful remains to be seen, though.

“Maybe I'll drop by later, get my Interval adjusted,” Brandt, who clearly hasn’t finished his conversation, continues, whilst retrieving and cocking both his guns. Teacher’s pet.

Preston, who had initially appeared rather detached from the company in the car, seems to be more interested in his companion now. “You’re expecting Resistance?” he queries.

“That's something you'll find about me, Cleric,” the grey suited driver replies. “I'm a wary person, cautious by nature. Always expecting the worst.”

Well, he could have fooled me. Brandt is possibly one of the cheeriest Clerics I have ever met. Of those who’ve not ceased their dose, that is.

The moment I spy Mary O’Brien standing defensively in the hallway of her home, I sigh inwardly. Of all the people to have hit next. She is one of the most careful people I know, so how has this come about? I beg for it not to be some sort of kneejerk reaction to Errol’s death. They were so close, she and him, that I expected the news of his demise to hit her hard, but I never expected her to become almost suicidal, yet the way she almost snarls at us, as we enter tells me that her wellbeing is no longer a very high priority.

“You can’t do this,” she insists, her big blue eyes flashing angrily. “You _cannot_ do this!”

Preston is first to respond to her outburst. “We’re Tetragrammaton,” he informs her, arrogantly. “There’s nothing we can’t do.”

Without hesitation, Mary lunges, but he easily dodges her attack, before grabbing her wrists and twisting the left one up behind her back.

“How long have you been off the dose?” Preston demands and my ears catch the tone of his voice. It’s a deep growl and I detect anger beneath the words, which surprises me.

Mary doesn’t answer and Preston, still gripping her wrists, spins her around twice, until she comes face to face with an ornately framed mirror.

“Look at you!” he orders.

The pair stands there, both confronted with their reflections. John Preston, pale, pristine and clad in black, like a terrible, mechanical angel of justice, against Mary O’Brien, so vibrant, passionate and beautifully dishevelled, as her eyes blaze with contempt for the Cleric stood behind her.

“Look at you,” Preston repeats, but the tone of his voice is in such contrast to a second ago, that I fear I misheard.

Abruptly releasing the criminal, the Cleric barks out an order, whilst walking away and it is no longer Mary who has my eye, but John Preston. After a moment, Brandt grabs Mary and I follow behind, perplexed by what just happened.

Preston is scanning the walls and I assume he is looking for some sort of hidden room. It is very common for sense offenders to hoard their illegal items in such a way and I know for a fact that Mary is no different.

“You live here alone?” Preston asks. My ears are instantly alert, listening intently for more signs of what I heard in the hallway. Whatever that was, he appears to have recovered.

Again, Mary remains stubbornly silent.

“What other sense offenders are you in contact with?”

“Fuck you,” she spits. “How’s that?”

I just about manage to keep a smirk from my face. I always have liked Mary, right from the very beginning, but Preston doesn’t entertain her outburst, continuing his search for the hidden room. It doesn’t take long for it to be found and two enforcers are ordered forward, carrying a small battering ram. The flimsy partition wall is easily smashed into and Preston passes through the large hole, to enter a room, where an array of contraband is displayed. Everything from kitschy little tea sets, to stunning paintings adorns every surface and my knowledge of their unfortunate fate saddens me.

“You’re going to burn it, aren’t you?” Mary correctly guesses and the pain in her voice is evident, some of the previous aggression dissipated in the face of defeat.

“Eventually,” Preston confirms, his eagle eyes scanning the room. “However, you couldn't have accumulated all this by yourself. It'll all be sorted and examined. We'll discover who your confederates are.”

Something snaps in Mary and I see her body tense a split second before she reaches for the gun resting in the holster of the nearest enforcer. With the speed typical of a Cleric, I lurch forward at the exact moment a gunshot rings through the air.

Time freezes.

After several long seconds, everyone begins to assess the situation. In my arms stands a neutralised Mary O’Brien, the gun she previously carried lying on the floor at her feet, but, once again, she is not the person holding my rapt attention.

My eyes are firmly fixed on John Preston. His left hand is encircling the wrist of Brandt, who had immediately drawn his own weapon, to offer a more permanent means of neutralisation, but the bullet’s trajectory was altered completely, because his arm was pushed upwards at the crucial moment.

My eyes are almost like saucers, as I gaze disbelievingly at the scene before me.

John Preston just saved Mary’s life. Preston, a man who two days ago killed a fellow human being he had worked alongside for almost a decade, has just averted the death of a sense offender.

My state of shock is such that it would have been very easy for Mary to simply push me over and escape.

Sensing all eyes upon him, Preston lets his grip loosen and both Clerics slowly lower their arms. Eyes shifting about the room, he actually looks… _uncomfortable_.

“We need her,” he asserts, quietly, before exiting the secret room.

My eyes do not leave Preston until he disappears around a corner and, when they finally return to the spot he had previously occupied, I see Brandt’s gaze has done exactly the same. The grey clad man shares with me such a look, that I am instantly set on edge. Gone was the enthusiastic young man, to be replaced by a ruthlessly ambitious Cleric, desperate to climb the ranks. It is only there for less than a second and I’m not even sure if Brandt is aware of the reveal, but it quickly evaporates and focus returns to the woman still in my arms.

This all happened in a matter of seconds, but that very short period of time has a tremendous weight to carry on its shoulders.

**~**

The return journey is a quiet one and, sitting quietly in the back seat, I am left to ruminate on the raid that has just been concluded. I’m not the only Cleric deep in thought, as Preston is gazing out the window, chin resting in his palm and, where once the thought of seeing that face repulsed me, now I want nothing more than to study it.

I have a suspicion as to what happened in Mary’s house, but it seems so outlandish that I cannot entertain it just yet. I need more evidence. Judging by Brandt’s expression earlier, I can only assume he is working on the same suspicions, but you wouldn’t know it right now. His demeanour is just as it was before we arrived and, what once was a placement that filled me with dread, is now an assignment that imbues intrigue. There is far more going on her than meets the eye and I want to discover what it is. I simply have to ensure that neither of the Clerics suspects _me_.

That shouldn’t be too hard, as they both appear to be far too preoccupied to even give me a second thought.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. 5

**5.**

My footsteps echo, as they collide with the glossy floor in a steady march. Father’s voice reverberates softly in the air around me, but I have no interest in his lies. Today is another day and there is work to be done.

“ _With it, we anesthetize grief, annihilate jealousy, obliterate rage. That those sister impulses towards joy, love, and elation are anesthetized in stride, we accept as fair sacrifice. For we embrace Prozium in its unifying fullness and all that it has done to make us great_.”

I spot Cleric Preston at his desk and something appears to have snared his interest. Rather than continue advancing, I decide to stop and simply watch a moment. His eyes remain glued to the desk for quite some time, before he takes action. Reaching for the stapler, he shifts its position slightly, moving it closer to him. Next, he grabs the small pot of pens and paperclips, doing nothing more than simply adjust the angle at which it sits. This is all rather peculiar behaviour, but my observation is interrupted by the arrival of Brandt, who, of course, has also noticed Preston’s fiddling.

I continue walking towards the pair and reach them in time to hear Preston in the middle of giving some sort of explanation.

“…I’m merely attempting to optimise.”

There is a moment of pause from Brandt, before acknowledging my arrival.

“Ah, Cleric,” he greets me, one of those small smiles offered my way, before dropping a file onto the desk before Preston. “Sense offenders, holed up in the Nether.”

The raid is an especially large one, even larger than the one intended to apprehend Seamus. In total, forty five sense offenders-all men-are apprehended and taken in for questioning. The other twelve are dead, their bodies being hauled out of the abandoned warehouse in grey body bags.

Brandt is overseeing the work of the enforcers, whilst I busy myself with filling in paperwork on the bonnet of our car. Engrossed in the morbid task of accounting for every death that has occurred, I don’t notice a dark figure approaching, until it stops a couple of feet away and leans back against the driver door.

My eyes leave the paper and travel upwards to see Preston folding his arms, eyes fixed straight ahead. I had wondered where he got to. Although I do not have a full view of his face, I can see the absence in those dark green orbs. His mind is far away and there is a marked difference in the Cleric’s posture, even in comparison to a couple of hours ago, when we first arrived. His back isn’t as straight, his head held less high and I’m sure the Preston I worked alongside before Errol’s death would never have let himself be caught lounging in such a manner.

Something else about Preston catches my attention. Further down his body, in stark contrast to the solid black of his trench coat, is a flash of white. Narrowing my eyes, I study it to discover the corner of a book sticking out of his pocket. My thoughts immediately rewind to Errol and the day he made his fatal mistake, all in the name of Yeats. I can feel my pulse speed up, as the cogs of my mind start whirring. I wanted evidence and I’m rather certain this is it.

Bracing myself, I voice my question, returning my gaze to the paperwork, so as to make the query appear casual.

“Why didn’t you leave that for the Evidentiary team to collect and log?”

Preston’s ungloved hand jerks towards the book dangling from the pocket and his brow furrows imperceptibly, as though surprised to find the object there at all.

“They…they miss things, sometimes,” he eventually replies, pushing the book more securely into his pocket. “I’ll take it in myself. Make sure it gets done properly.”

Those words shake me to my core, bringing far too many raw memories to the surface. In my stunned state, the pen in my right hand has stopped moving, something noted by Preston. My eyes move upwards once more and lock with his. He realises what he has said and the horror he tries to smother is far too easy to read.

I have my evidence.

For a long time, we do nothing more than watch each other, both unsure of how to proceed. We are saved the chore of figuring it out, as Brandt strides towards us.

“You know, Preston,” he begins, in his typically conversational manner. “If we keep burning all this contraband, eventually there won't be anything left to burn.” Those dark eyes flit between Preston and I. “What'll there be for people like us?”

I’m about to answer, having already allowed my mask to slip back into place, when the conversation is interrupted by an enforcer calling our attention. Well, calling _Preston’s_ attention, as he is the lead Cleric on this raid.

“Sir! We’ve got something out back.”

The two Clerics walk away to deal with whatever situation the enforcer has presented them with, but I stay behind with the paperwork and my thoughts. There is absolutely no mistaking what is happening to Preston; I went through the very same thing myself eleven years ago. Paranoia quickly jumps in, wondering if I have been rumbled and he is simply faking it to catch me out. The scenario is unlikely, but not impossible. I have known of a Cleric or two who adopted that tactic in the past, to get particularly stubborn sense offenders to confess, but it never worked. To someone who has never experienced emotion, it is impossible to understand or describe and even harder to pretend convincingly. A person experiencing the baffling highs, middles and lows of joy, sadness, fear, excitement, even love, _knows_ when another is feeling the same. Replicating numbness is relatively easy in comparison.

Preston is feeling and, from what I just saw in his eyes, he is absolutely terrified.

Just as I click the pen closed, gunshots fire, followed by agonised and petrified yelps. I know what is happening and absolutely loathe it, but there is nothing I can do to stop it. This is another example of having to ignore natural impulse, in order to retain my cover. I’ll have a date with self loathing later this evening.

As I close the metal file containing the completed paperwork, footsteps announce Preston’s return, but I have to remember not to gape, as he passes by and stops by the boot of the car. Dangling from his grasp is a small, whimpering dog, which he intends to place inside the boot and I can’t get my head around what is happening. Never, in all my years as a Cleric, have I seen anyone let an animal from a crime scene live; even I don’t risk it. Just how is he planning to explain this little piece of evidence to the Tetragrammaton? Preston’s making mistakes and its going to get him killed.

The vengeful part of me can’t help but think that would be a good thing, that it’s no more than Preston deserves after all he’s done. Then the more reasonable side reminds me that, like all under the influence of Prozium, he has never been fully accountable for his actions and, as much as I often like to imagine his face beneath my pounding fists, there is another who must be held accountable.

Right now, I still want to slap Preston, but it is less to do with revenge and more to do with irritation at his recklessness, rather similar to my feelings towards Errol for his behaviour, just before he died. I don’t say anything, however, as there is still the faint possibility that he could be a very good actor and I’m nothing if not cautious. Every sense offender has their own journey to make. This is Preston’s and I cannot interfere, at least, not until I know more.

**~**

“Good evening, Cleric,” Brian, the proprietor of the reading room greets me, as I enter.

“Evening,” I reply, a small smile my method of letting him know that I am alone and not present for official business. “Busy?” That is my discreet way of asking if Jurgen is around.

“Rather quiet, at the moment,” he informs me and I feel myself sink a little. “But, it should pick up quite soon.”

“I’ll wait,” I say, before making my way to the bookcase taking up the entire back wall.

Three of the four walls in the Reading Room are covered with a bookshelf, but only two sit flush to the wall. The third, the one I head for, leaves just enough space for a person to squeeze behind and that is where the entrance to the Resistance headquarters awaits. It comprises of a door sized hole in the wall, where a sliding door has been inserted. Hi-tech it may not be, but it works.

When Jurgen finally arrives, he finds me sitting at a long wooden table, upon which rest my gloves and coat.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, able to read the expression on my face.

I rub my hand down my face and let out a long sigh. “No,” I eventually admit.

Jurgen takes the seat opposite me and sits back, folding his arms. He doesn’t say anything, but simply waits for me to talk.

“I think a Cleric has ceased his Interval.”

“Who?” he asks, leaning forward.

“John Preston.”

The name isn’t immediately recognisable.

“He worked with Errol,” I clarify, to which Jurgen nods in understanding.

“What makes you think he’s quit Prozium?”

“I’ve spent the past couple of days shadowing him,” I explain. “It’s supposed to be training for me, but he isn’t acting the way he should be, they way he did before. The man was like a robot, but now… First of all, he stopped another Cleric shooting Mary yesterday, even though she was about to try and kill him and, today, he stole evidence from a raid and even rescued a fucking dog!”

“Really?” Jurgen’s brow creases in disbelief. “Has anyone else noticed?”

“Yes and I don’t think he’s doing a good job of talking his way out of it.”

“I take it you haven’t yet spoken to him about it.”

“No,” I admit. “I have no idea how he’ll react. I mean, this is the golden child we’re talking about, one of the Tetragrammaton’s top men. For all I know, he could just turn me in and start dosing again.”

“Or he could join us,” Jurgen argued and I could hear the hope in his voice.

“I don’t think he’d be too popular,” I remark.

“Some are more forgiving than you,” he counters. “Caution may help you at work, but there’s nothing wrong with letting the walls down sometimes.”

“Those “walls”,” I say, making quote marks with my fingers. “Are the reason I’m still alive.”

“Not everyone is the bad guy,” Jurgen insists, elbows resting on the table, as he leans further forward. “And, if this Cleric is as high ranking as you say, he’d be perfect! Imagine what we could accomplish with him on our side.”

“You want a man, who’s dedicated his life to the work of a Cleric, who’s only _just_ stopped dosing, to kill Father?”

“You were happy for Errol to do it.”

“That’s different. Errol had adjusted. Preston hasn’t and we don’t have time to wait and hope for the best.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Jurgen’s eyes bore into mine, waiting for an answer he knows I don’t have.

“What about me?” I suggest, feebly. The phrase “grasping at straws” comes to mind.

“You didn’t want to do it,” Jurgen reminds me.

“That’s because there was an alternative.”

“There’s an alternative now. You say we don’t have time to wait for this Cleric to adjust to emotion, but how long will it take for you to be of a rank high enough to even _entertain_ the notion of gaining access to Father?”

I don’t reply, but keep my eyes on Jurgen, the fingers of my right hand drumming on the table. I try to think of another idea, anything that wouldn’t involve Preston, but my mind comes up blank.

“Susan?” Jurgen prompts, when the silence stretches on for a little too long.

“Urgh, fine!” I snap, finally breaking eye contact in irritation.

“You need to bring him here, somehow.”

“Alright, but it’ll take a little while.”

“Susan, we do-”

“No,” I interject. “If I’m going to risk doing this, I need to be absolutely certain he’s fully off the dose. You said yourself that we can’t risk me losing my position. Okay?”

Jurgen isn’t entirely satisfied, but it’s better than nothing, so he agrees.

“Keep me updated,” he requests. “I’ll have some of our guys start keeping an eye on him.”

If Father was aware of just how many employees were disobeying him, the fit of rage he’d experience would probably outweigh any amount of Prozium he injected into his neck.

With that issue concluded, I stand, retrieving the coat and gloves from the table. “I’ll have to get back.”

“A Cleric’s work is never done,” Jurgen mocks, good naturedly.

“Never!” I widen my eyes dramatically, eliciting a chuckle from my companion.

As ever, I walk away, my mind overloaded with thought.


	6. 6

**6.**

This morning, the office is abuzz. Well, as abuzz as a place full of emotionally dead humans can be. At my desk, a memo is waiting and I sit to read it, wondering what exactly is going on.

_Following the events of yesterday evening, Father has decreed that all sense offenders are no longer to be detained for trial, but exterminated on sight. Anybody found not to comply with this law shall be subject to the same punishment._

My eyes skim the words and I feel dread sitting heavily in my heart. Following the events of yesterday evening…what on Earth happened to bring this about? Whatever it was must have been significant, if the Tetragrammaton is willing to forgo extracting information about the Resistance, in favour of simply “exterminating” criminals. Such wording leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Confusion almost causes me to frown, but I manage to catch myself in time. I don’t recall anything being planned by the Underground. As far as I’m aware, the recent Prozium factory bombings were the only attacks scheduled for the next few weeks. Have some Resistance members decided to go rogue? Whilst I understand their impatience, I am aware of how dangerous such vigilantism could be. This new law is evidence of what can happen if things go too far, too quickly.

Clacking heels announce the arrival of another and I look up to see a young woman halt before my desk.

“Good morning, Cleric,” she says, before placing a file on my desk.

“Thank you,” I reply, retrieving the file as she walks away.

There is yet another raid scheduled for today and it looks to be our biggest yet. Closing the file, I turn to my computer, to locate Preston and Brandt and discover that they have both checked in at the Kata Floor. I do hope Brandt didn’t try to pit himself against the senior Cleric. Whatever is going on with John Preston, I still wouldn’t want to challenge him to a duel. Unless, of course, I actually _planned_ on going to hospital.

Standing up from the desk, I begin to make my way to the Kata Floor, wondering if I’ll be working with two Clerics, or just the one today.

Brandt is very much alive and well, when I arrive to find the pair swinging for one another with practice batons. Perhaps whatever conversation they are having is too distracting for either to commit fully to the sparring. The first thing I notice, even from this distance, is the expression on Brandt’s face, once again exuding ruthlessness. I can only be thankful he doesn’t have his sights set on me, as it would truly be an intimidating prospect.

After a couple of minutes, the fight appears to be over and Preston notices my presence at the edge of the training floor. Straightening up, he nods his head in acknowledgement, which causes the other man to turn.

“Good morning Clerics,” I greet the pair, remaining right where I stand. I have no intention of being anywhere near either, whilst they wield such weapons. “There is a raid in the Nether. Sector Seven. We need to get ready.”

**~**

I take my customary place in the back seat of the car, file in lap, as I familiarise myself with the details of the latest case. It troubles me somewhat to know that these rebels are completely unknown to me, because it means that they will think me no different than any other Cleric and shan’t hold back when the fighting starts. I will have to be at my very sharpest.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my two companions approach. The driver door opens, as Brandt climbs in and, to my surprise, one of the back passenger doors opens and Preston sits himself beside me. Unsure of how to react right away, I settle for keeping my eyes on the sheet of paper, remembering the previous day’s conversation with Jurgen. How best to broach the subject of dose cessation with Cleric John Preston? Would he even be interested? I can feel the tingle of nervousness begin to make itself known, so attempt to distract myself.

“I trust you’re both aware of the new rules regarding sense offenders?” I check.

“Yes, thank you, Cleric,” Brandt responds, buckling his seatbelt.

In a moment of bravery, I decide to go out on a limb and test the waters, if somewhat abstractly, regarding Preston’s intentions. Perhaps, at the very least, he should know that he may not be the only Cleric in this car currently disobeying their master.

“I must confess I am a little baffled by Father’s logic,” I begin. “As it seems counterproductive to simply kill sense offenders, with complete disregard for any potentially vital information they might possess.”

Preston, whose gaze had been fixed firmly out the window, slowly turns his head, not quite fully facing me, but three quarters of the way there. His eyes do not meet mine yet, preferring to remain lowered.

“You…” His voice is quiet, and he may have attempted to conceal the apprehension, but I manage to spot it. Hopefully, Brandt hasn’t. “You don’t agree with the new law?”

“It’s not a question of what I agree with,” I answer. “But, what is best for Libria.”

Green eyes, brimming with trepidation, carefully meet mine and I can see the questions racing through his mind. He’s wondering if I’ve revealed his secret to anyone, yet and, if not, why not. I make a small attempt to reassure him with my gaze, but I don’t think it is very successful. This is completely new territory for me and I’ve never been the most socially adept of sense offenders. Jurgen is far better at this sort of thing, at easing people into the world of human emotion and I can’t help wishing he were here right now, doing this instead of me.

The car engine purrs into life and we begin our journey to the latest raid, Preston’s eyes leaving me long before mine leave him.

**~**

The raid was every bit as awful as I imagined. With Father’s new decree, it really did turn into a senseless massacre, with rebels and enforcers-who are not privy to the gun Kata afforded to Clerics-alike dropping like flies. The bullets fly in every direction and the agonising cries, along with orders barked back and forth, all mingled together into a cacophony of misery.

Preston disappears quite early on into the raid, but I do not have the chance to wonder or worry about him, because I’m too busy avoiding the myriad bullets flying my way. I stick with a defensive stance, rather than offensive, as the enforcers are packing more than enough fire power to cover me and, even if these rebels would happily see me dead, I do not wish the same fate for them. It may seem pointless, given the fact that no sense offender is going to be allowed to leave here alive, but my past has provided me with enough blood on my hands and I’d rather not add any more.

The next time I see Preston, it is as he barrels into one of the rooms of the derelict warehouse.

“What is this?” he demands, seeing the line of rebels stood with their backs to a glass wall. “What are you doing?”

It alarms me to realise that he hasn’t seen the two Clerics or group of enforcers at the other side of the room and I silently beg him to say no more. He already looks suspicious enough and, if he was actually attempting to do what I believe he was doing, one wrong word could earn him a place beside these sense offenders.

Luckily, Brandt chooses this very moment to speak. “Nicely done, Cleric,” he congratulates Preston. The mockery of his tone doesn’t escape me and he’s just earned himself a high place on my list of people to _never_ trust. “You drive them into the trap... I close it. The very definition of teamwork, don't you think?” Gesturing to the rebels with a gloved hand, Brandt continues. “Why don't you take the honours of the execution, Cleric?”

Preston really needs to practice controlling the emotion on his face, because the alarm is clear as day. “These people should be taken for clinical interrogation,” he argues.

“Cleric...Father's rulings are quite clear,” Brandt reminds him. “Offenders are to be shot on sight.”

“They have valuable information.”

“Cleric...”

“They can be put to much better use.”

I have to commend Preston’s effort. He certainly isn’t going to give up easily. Brandt holds out one of his guns, before cocking it. “Cleric, if your weapon's low, please use mine.”

Preston takes the weapon and eyes it, as if it is a wild animal and I can see his mind working again. “No,” he eventually says, a more neutral mask having finally fallen over his face. At least he’s learning, even if it is a bit late. “I think, in the end... it'll be better if you have it.”

Without argument, Brandt accepts the gun from Preston, before turning to speak to an officer behind him. “Captain.”

No more needs to be said. As Brandt said, Father’s words were very clear.

The enforcement captain signals for three gunmen to step forward. “Firing positions,” he commands.

Rifles are raised and I have to chase away the bile rising in my throat.

“Ready...”

Guns cock and the rebels stare defiantly at the gunmen, but the terror is present in their eyes. That will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“Aim...”

Preston is no longer with us and I see his shadow disappear behind the glass wall.

“Fire!”

**~**

Emotion refused to be contained until the evening, so I am forced to let it flow freely in one of the bathroom cubicles. Tears stream down my face, as I silently weep for all those suffering at the hands of injustice. I’m careful to ensure I do not wipe away the tears, or rub the skin at all, in order to hide what I have done. It was one of the first things I learnt, after ceasing the dose, as emotional breakdowns were common in the beginning.

It is days like these that I truly hate Libria and all it stands for. I want to approach every Prozium dependent person I can find and beat the ever loving shit out of them. I want someone to hit _me_ for not doing anything to save those rebels and the knowledge that the prevention of their execution was out of my hands only makes me feel more wretched.

I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this, pretending to be a zombie, whilst watching countless innocent lives get snuffed out, in the same manner one would apply to removing an infestation of cockroaches. How can we be so apathetic to our own? How can a nation truly believe that this is better than what we had before? I feel like I’m suffocating in this miserable city!

I want to leave. Not just the Tetragrammaton, but Libria itself. I want the freedom to think and feel as I please, to laugh and smile with friends. I want to gaze in wonder at the world around me. Hell, maybe I even want to fall in love…

… _maybe_.

After all I’ve seen and done, even if Father was overthrown and the Resistance was successful, I’m not sure I’d ever be capable of such a thing. So preoccupied with retaining my mask of indifference, I’ve never really learnt what it means to truly care for another. Of course, I enjoy the company of a few people, Jurgen most of all, but it never reaches any stage further than platonic and my reticent personality has never really encouraged the interest of others.

Its better this way, though, I know. Far less complicated. From what I’ve seen, love can make people reckless and, in my profession, that will only get you killed and Jurgen is only too happy to remind me of how important my role is to the Resistance.

Speaking of which, when I finally regain enough self control to leave this bathroom, he is going to have to be the very next person I speak to. There is a great deal for us to discuss.

 

 


	7. 7

**7.**

**“** _The Underground is our foe, and greater than even the threat of those who have forsaken their Prozium for emotion, is the threat of those selfsame individuals united. They are the secret organization..._ ”

“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath, in absolutely no mood for Father’s bullshit.

My head is still pounding from all that happened yesterday and, this morning, I wanted nothing more than to bury myself beneath my quilt and hide. It’s a rather childish desire, but I’m feeling one of those particular moods creep up on me. One of the hazards of trying to be a Cleric and sense offender at the same time is periods of depression. Unfortunately, I am forced to simply work through them, as the only cure for it is the Prozium. The only upside to the slump in my mood is that it makes it just a little easier to fit in with the zombies surrounding me.

It’s poor timing on Cleric Brandt’s part that he should choose such a time to converse with me, especially whilst I am also elbows deep in paperwork. The higher ranking Clerics are fortunate enough to not have to deal with so much red tape, but, apparently, part of _my_ training involves practicing how to fill in forms correctly. Because, if I didn’t know how to place a pen nib onto a sheet of paper and move it in such a way that forms words, I certainly do now.

I remind myself to keep the foul mood in check, as the Cleric catches me on the way to delivering files to the Administration department. He falls into step with me easily and gives the small smile that has become a familiar characteristic.

“Good afternoon, Cleric,” he says, trying to make our meeting seem like a coincidence, but I know it isn’t. Brandt strikes me as a man who doesn’t deal in coincidences.

“Cleric,” I reply. “I trust you are well.”

“Yes. Thank you. And yourself?”

“Couldn’t be better,” he declares, full of that semi-enthusiasm I have come to know him for.

In the beginning, I found it somewhat refreshing and even, dare I say, a little charming. However, having seen the predatory way he scrutinises Preston, I find it far more unsettling now.

“Things have been so hectic recently,” he remarks, conversationally. “That it seems odd to have a relatively quiet day.”

“It does,” I agree, wondering what the point of this chat is and when the Hell he’ll get to it. “But it also provides a chance to catch up on paperwork.”

We reach the elevators and I press the button to go down, hoping both that one might arrive quickly and Brandt won’t decide to use it as well. Unfortunately, neither happens and, when we finally enter, Brandt chooses to break the silence that had fallen between us.

“Have you seen Preston today?” he queries.

“I’m afraid not,” I reply, suspecting that we may soon reach the crux of our discussion.

There is another short period of quiet, before Brandt finally reveals his reason for speaking to me.

“Have you noticed anything odd about him?”

I turn my face to look at Brandt. “Odd?”

“He doesn’t seem to be acting himself. Haven’t you noticed?” His eyes search mine.

“I am afraid my judgement may not be the best, as I only started working with him after you did.”

“You were present during his raid with Partidge, were you not?”

“I was,” I confirm. “But engaged very little with him. Perhaps, if there is any difference in behaviour, it is simply a matter of adjusting to this new working arrangement.”

“Possibly,” Brandt considers, although I don’t think my hastily thought of suggestion really holds any weight with him.

It’s difficult trying to find a way of getting this man off his partner’s back, without appearing to overzealous in my defence of Preston.

“Do you have any other theories?” I probe, deciding it best to know as much of this man’s intentions as possible.

“One or two,” he admits. “None of them particularly favourable towards his character.”

“Do you think he is up to something?” I try to infuse just enough interest and disbelief into my tone to be believable.

Brandt eyes me, scepticism towards his partner’s purpose evident in his expression. “Don’t you?”

I allow my gaze to lock with his for a long moment and, whilst it doesn’t surprise me to know he suspects Preston of breaking the law, it still sends a shiver down my spine. Although he’s asking for my opinion on the matter, I don’t think anything I say will have an impact on his.

“You…you don’t believe he’s…” I try to give enough pause to my words, to show how unlikely the notion of a top Cleric ceasing his dose is. “…feeling?”

“Errol Partridge proved that it’s not impossible.”

“But it certainly must be difficult,” I say. “Especially in a position such as Preston’s. He is considered to be one of the best and I cannot comprehend attempting to maintain such a charade, whilst engulfed by emotion.”

“It is certainly an odd prospect,” he agrees. “And I hope I can rely on your discretion regarding this matter.” He throws me one of his most pleading looks. Being unemotional certainly did not mean he couldn’t be manipulative. “I do not want to create an awkward situation unnecessarily.”

“Of course,” I assure him.

His eyes finally leave me and we spend the rest of the time in the elevator in another round of silence. Upon reaching the Administration floor, Brandt allows me to exit first and, to my surprise but great relief, he remains where he is.

“Good day, Cleric,” he says.

I nod and turn to walk away, but, after only one step, he calls my name, forcing me to face him once more.

“If what I have seen so far is anything to go by, I do not think you shall need to shadow Preston much longer.”

“Thank you,” I reply, before the elevator doors shut and I am finally rid of his company. His compliment leaves my skin crawling as much as Preston’s did, back when he was a mindless machine. It’s bizarre how quickly my opinions on the two men have reversed.

After a day like today, I definitely need to speak with Jurgen. Brandt, at best, suspects Preston of being a sense offender and, at worst, knows. I need to figure out a way of talking to Preston, that won’t leave him bolting for the door, because time has run out.

**~**

“From what you’ve said and what we’ve seen, it won’t be long before Preston’s turned in,” Jurgen muses.

He looks worried and, to be honest, I am too. The acceleration in Father’s crackdown on the Resistance is going at breakneck speed and our window of opportunity to strike is disappearing fast. It won’t be long before audiences with Father become a thing of the past.

“I’ll do my utmost to get him alone later,” I promise. “He’s recently developed a habit for wandering off during raids. Brandt, as far as I know, doesn’t suspect me, so he can only assume I’m keeping tabs on Preston, should I follow him. I just don’t know how best to broach the subject.”

“If you can get him here, let me do the talking.”

I consider Jurgen’s proposal and know it’s probably the best way to go. I just need to think up a scenario to get Preston here. There are two ways to go about it, honesty or subterfuge and I can’t decide which will be most effective. He always seems so scared around me nowadays; I wonder if either will work.

We continue talking a little longer, trying to work out our next move, because things are only going to get worse. Despite the need for urgency, I still have my misgivings about roping Preston in. It’s far too soon to ask a man to take a life, just as he understands the meaning of what he’ll be taking away. It wouldn’t bother me, but I’ve had the time to let my hatred towards Father simmer. His death is a necessary part of freedom, but not everybody is capable of outright murder. With emotion comes compassion and some have the ability to carry more than others. If yesterday is anything to go by, I get the feeling that Preston has had more than enough dealings in death.

If I thought my head felt bad earlier, it is downright agony now and Jurgen tells me to go home and try to rest. Far easier said than done, but I comply and agree to do all I can to bring Preston to the Underground by any means necessary tomorrow.

Before entering the Freedom Reading Room, I have to ensure it is empty first and press my ear to the wall, listening for any signs of life. I cannot hear any voices and give three quick knocks, waiting for them to be repeated on the other side to confirm that the coast is clear. I hear the knocks and pull the sliding door open, squeezing out from behind the bookcase, before closing the Underground entrance.

“Is everything alright?” Brian queries, obviously seeing the look on my face, as I haven’t had chance to neutralise my features just yet.

“I hope so,” I sigh. “But, ask me tomorrow. I should have a better idea by then.”

“Be careful, Susan,” he requests, offering a comforting smile, which I try to return, but fail miserably.

Just as I reach the double doors, they open, forcing me to take a couple of steps back and none other than John Preston strides into the room. The moment he sees me, he halts and, although his face is impassive, I see a mixture of emotions dancing about in his eyes. A sliver of apprehension drops my body temperature a degree.

What is he doing here? More importantly, _why_ is he here? Does he know about the Resistance? Did he manage to extract the information out of one of the rebels from yesterday’s raid? If the tongues of Underground members are truly becoming so loose, then we _really_ need to be on our toes.

Preston turns his head to face Brian and his eyes only leave me for a second. “Out,” he orders, his voice quiet, but authoritative.

Brian’s gaze flits over to me and he hesitates.

“Now!” This time, Preston’s eyes remain fixed on me and Brian does as he’s told, throwing an apologetic look my way, before leaving the room.

Preston and I are now alone, standing off against one another in complete silence and I feel my pulse race, as I wonder what he is going to do next. As hard as he might be trying to control himself, the Cleric looks ready to snap. My hands twitch, reflexively poised to grab my gun at a second’s notice, but I force them to stay at my sides, because what good would a gunfight do right now? I certainly couldn’t hope to win, not at such close range.

Along with the anger in Preston’s eyes, there is determination in the set of his jaw and, when he speaks, his voice is tight.

“Errol Partridge. What do you know about him?”

I hadn’t expected his first question to be that and don’t know what kind of answer he is looking for. Why is he bringing up his former partner?

“He was a Grammaton Cleric,” I answer, unable to think of anything else to say. I’d expected some time for preparation, before having this confrontation.

My answer doesn’t satisfy. “I'm gonna ask you one more time,” he says, impatience evident in his tone. “Errol Partridge.” His voice slows to emphasise each word. “What do you know about him?”

“I just told you.”

Preston gives a quick shake of his head, before taking a step closer. “There’s more,” he insists.

“Yes,” I agree, aware that I’m baiting his ire, but unsure of how else to get him to accept what’s happening to him. Once he comes to terms with that, I can take him to Jurgen. It may be a terrible plan, but I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I am terrible at this sort of thing.

The Cleric waits for me to continue.

“You shot him.”

Something snaps and Preston lunges forward, grabbing me by the collar and slamming me down onto the nearest table. I wince, as hard steel collides with my back.

“You're an offender,” he snarls, ending any speculation I have about whether he’s guessed my secret.

“So are you,” I shoot back.

Preston has no retort for that and settles for simply boring a hole into my skull with his glare. At such close proximity, with his breath falling onto my face, I see just how terrifying he can be and daren’t imagine how much worse it would have been with Prozium swimming through his veins. He is no longer hiding his emotions, which means I have, at least, achieved what I set out to do, but, now comes the task of calming him down.

“Why are you here?” I ask, allowing some of the harshness to leave my voice.

For a long time, Preston doesn’t reply, but simply keeps looking at me. He seems to be facing some sort of inward struggle and his eyes begin to shift uncomfortably, travelling all over my face. At such close proximity, I can see all the different shades of green colouring his irises and notice his pupils dilating. Before I can wonder too long, I feel his fingers loosen their grip slightly and then, as though suddenly greatly fatigued, his hand releases me, before he retreats a few steps.

I carefully return to a standing position, my eyes remaining on the Cleric, as he rubs his face with his hands, before turning his back to me. He really is in quite a state and I don’t know what to do now. I’m still waiting for an answer to my question, though. I need to know why he’s here, before I can take him to Jurgen.

Before I can repeat my question, an unexpected voice comes from behind.

“Do you _know_ why you came?”

Both mine and Preston’s heads spin in the direction of the speaker, who is none other than Jurgen. What the Hell? I can‘t even begin to understand what he thinks he’s doing, but I can’t exactly tell him to go, now. For better or worse, this is happening right.

Preston still doesn’t answer the question and I wonder if he even knows the answer himself.

“How could you?” Jurgen presses on, his voice gentle and reassuring. “A thousand conflicting emotions. On one hand, your commitment to the state; not so easily forgotten.” He moves forward, slowly approaching the Cleric. “The other, the abhorrence of the wrongs committed in its name.”

Preston’s eyes are watching Jurgen’s approach like a hawk, but his speech resonates with me on a deep level. It was very similar to the words I was offered, when I first sought help to deal with my newly experienced emotions. Jurgen’s right hand moves and I see the Cleric visibly stiffen, until it lands carefully on his shoulder. For some time, all Preston does is stare at the hand, almost in wonder.

“As well as your natural desire for the company and friendship of other human beings,” Jurgen finishes.

Preston immediately looks away and, witnessing his reaction to Jurgen’s words, it really does feel like watching myself all those years ago. All the confusion, the distress, the longing…I remember it far too well and suddenly feel like an intruder. This is such a momentous occasion, probably the most important thing Preston will ever do and, now that Jurgen is here, I’m no longer necessary.

I cannot bring myself to leave, though. Watching the transformation of a machine turn into a man is fascinating and, as his hands start to tremble, I also spot a tear rolling down his cheek. If he starts crying, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my own feelings in check, because it’s all starting to hit a little too close to home, especially the part about friendship with others. That’s very much something I haven’t had much opportunity to enjoy. Actually, it’s something I’ve deliberately avoided.

Jurgen’s hand slips from Preston’s shoulder to his upper back and gently persuades him to move forward, but his eyes meet mine, making it clear that his next words are for me, as much as the man beside him.

“Come with me.”

 

 

 


	8. 8

**8.**

“Welcome to the Underground.”

Preston’s eyes are everywhere, as he takes in the place that every Cleric has spent their careers searching for. I remember when I was first brought here and my thoughts were a complete mess, but I still marvelled at how ordinary it looked. In my mind, The Resistance headquarters had been built up into some legendary abode of evil and the reality proved unbelievably anticlimactic.

Preston’s expression shows that he is feeling exactly the same way, as he takes the seat offered to him. I settle for standing, my hip leaning against the table, as Jurgen begins retrieving the equipment required to conduct a polygraph test. All new recruits are required to take it, as a matter of caution.

The Cleric keeps his eyes on the table, as though fascinated by it. Upon the discovery of a knot, he lifts a finger, about to touch it, when he catches himself and replaces the hand in his lap. From personal experience, I know it’ll be some time before Preston will be at ease with the emotions running rampant through him.

Jurgen asks me to wire Preston up to the machine, whilst he finishes configuring it.

“Tilt your head to the left,” I instruct.

Preston does so and I lean over in order to see where I am placing the wire. Some of his hair is in the way, so I have to push it aside, but when my thumb brushes against the bare skin, I feel his neck muscle involuntarily twitch and he inhales sharply. I pause and realise what I’ve done. It’s possible that that could have been his first experience of skin on skin contact and my stomach gives an unexpected kick. I should have left the gloves on. Attaching the wires would’ve been more difficult, but I could have saved us the small bout of awkwardness.

Quickly recovering, I attach the second wire to his right wrist and am thankful there are no repeats of what just happened. Once completed, I move back to my previous position by the table and allow Jurgen to explain the polygraph and its uses. Preston nods, signalling that the test can begin.

“Mary.”

The moment the name is spoken, the polygraph needle goes haywire, swinging wildly up and down. I watch the Cleric’s face and it is relatively composed, although the clenching of his jaw muscles reveals the struggle. To learn that he has developed affection for Mary O’Brien is no surprise, given his reaction to her during the raid on her home. To discover that he has stolen an item of hers-a small, red ribbon-was also something I expected. His affinity for the woman is close to becoming an obsession, common when a person comes off the dose.

Regaining emotion is, in many ways, like being born a second time and the first human being you meet during that time will engage all of your new senses. You suddenly understand what it means to notice the curve of a person’s lips when they smile, or the different shades of colour when the light hits their hair. Even the varying tones in their voice when they speak, is a source of fascination.

I remember when it happened to me, just four hours before they were sent for combustion. It hadn’t been given the time to develop the way Preston’s regard for Mary has, but I still recall the despair I felt, upon acknowledging the loss of the person who had opened up my entire world. I swore nothing could ever make me feel that way again and, so far, it hasn’t.

“She's scheduled for combustion,” Preston reveals.

Oh, the heartache in that sentence. It would’ve been enough to bring tears to my own eyes, had I not trained myself to suppress such reactions. Mary will be yet another rebel sacrificed in the name of our cause.

Jurgen also understands the pain and his voice is so very soft when he replies. “I know.”

Later, when the polygraph is completed and Jurgen is satisfied that Preston is, indeed, a sense offender, conversation has moved on to helping the Cleric come to terms with his new found senses.

“You know,” Jurgen begins, sat behind an old wooden desk, upon which rests countless maps and blueprints. Preston occupies the seat on the other side, whilst I, as before, stand a small distance away. “I was like you. But the first thing you learn about emotion is that it has its price; a complete paradox. But, without restraint, without control…” He looks at the man ahead long and hard “…emotion is chaos.” Preston frowns. “But how is that diff-”

“The difference being,” interposes Jurgen. “Is that when we want to feel, we can. It's just that...some of us...” Try as he might to hide it, regret sprinkles his words. “Some of us have to forgo that luxury so that the rest can have it. Some very few of us have to force ourselves _not_ to feel. Like me.” He points in my direction. “Like her. Like you.”

Preston’s gaze travels over to me, his curious eyes studying me intently. For some unknown reason, I find myself unable to hold his eyes for long and end up staring at the ground.

“What can I do?” the Cleric queries, his attention on Jurgen once more.

I hold my breath, knowing what the answer will be and wait for the reaction it will induce.

“You can kill Father.”

Preston’s eyes widen in true horror and he looks back to me again, as though checking that he heard Jurgen correctly. For several long moments, silence reigns supreme in the office, until it is broken by the sound of leather clad fingers twisting uncomfortably.

“I…I can’t-”

Jurgen shifts forward in his seat. “Listen to me.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking.”

“But, don’t you see?” the Resistance leader’s voice remains soft and calm, but there is a hint of desperation creeping in. “You’re our only hope.”

“I can’t kill a man,” Preston insists, shaking his head. “The first time I understand what life is, you want me to _take_ it. I can’t do that.”

It was as I predicted and I don’t like watching this scene. It’s almost like asking a small child to lie to their parents. Jurgen leans back in the seat, eyeing the Cleric critically. This is where the harder side of the man reveals itself. He’s not quite so friendly.

“What about the sweeper team?” he asks.

Even to me, that blow seems a little low. Preston is surprised that the man before him is aware of what happened the night he tried to release the dog back into the Nether. I didn’t even know until Jurgen told me earlier. Preston’s eyes find me again, before falling to the ground.

“That was different…” he says, quietly.

I never imagined that John Preston would be a man for whom I felt pity, but here I am, wanting to step in and end the conversation, necessary as it may be.

“What do you think Partridge was doing? You killed him before he could succeed.”

As it had done when I brought up the subject of Errol’s death, Jurgen’s words force Preston into action, almost toppling his chair over in his haste to stand. His breathing grows heavy, as he struggles to comprehend all that is happening and the distress, mingled with anger, in his voice rises with each word.

“I can’t do it! Don’t you understand? I _can’t_!”

And, with that, John Preston turns and leaves.

I immediately move to follow, throwing an I-told-you-so look Jurgen’s way, before exiting the room.

Preston marches swiftly through the crowds and he sticks out like a sore thumb. I can already see his body readying itself to run, so I beat him to it, ignoring the risks involved. Whatever suspicions I may raise with such behaviour, I know the damage will be far greater if I leave the fraught Cleric to his own devices.

Lurching forward into a sprint, I dodge bodies as best I can and it isn’t long before I reach Preston. Using all my weight, I shunt him sideways, herding us into the nearest alley. The surprise attack raises all his Cleric defences and, for the second time that day, he sends my back slamming into the nearest solid surface; this time, a wall.

With a fist curled around my wrists, my arms are pinned above me and his other hand is pressed up against my throat, restricting airflow. I try to struggle free, but his grip is too strong.

“What do you want from me?” he demands, his face close enough for our noses to almost touch. His expression is full of fury and desperation and I know he needs to calm down right now, or I may not reach the next minute conscious.

Craning my neck and trying with all my might to allow some oxygen into my lungs, I answer.

“I want…to…h-help…”

Before the sentence can be finished, he suddenly releases me and I fall to the ground on all fours, coughing and spluttering. I choke down deep breaths and rub my throat, as Preston manically paces back and forth, muttering to himself.

“How can you help?” he asks, though his voice is barely loud enough for me to hear, which suggests he may be speaking more to himself than me. “I can’t do this…I…I can’t. I can’t.”

He keeps repeating the phrase over and over and I manage to recover enough to get to my feet again. His hands reach up to the collar of his coat and start frantically pulling at the clasps to open it up.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe!” he declares.

Preston stumbles to the wall, before sliding down it, to sit on the ground. His breathing is becoming laboured and moisture forms along his brow. His hands tremble, as they rake through his dark hair, dishevelling the slicked back strands. The signs are clear and I need to act quickly.

Careful not to startle him with any sudden movements, I move forward and crouch before the Cleric.

“Preston,” I call gently.

“Can’t…breathe…” he repeats, one hand going to his throat, as the other forms a fist at his side.

I place a hand on either shoulder. “Preston, you’re having a panic attack.”

This statement initially has the undesired effect of worsening his current condition and terrified eyes lock with mine. I move my hands upwards to hold his face and keep his focus on me.

“Keep looking at me,” I command, my voice steady and clear. “You’re going to be fine. I can help you, but you have to do as I say. Can you do that?”

I’ve had more than my fair share of attacks over the years and, through experience, managed to develop a way of getting through them. Unlike Preston, I had to do it alone and I’m glad to be here to get him through this, as I know I would have appreciated the assistance, were our roles reversed.

The man before me has yet to respond to my request, so I call his name, in an attempt to get him to focus. When he finally nods, I’m able to continue.

“You need to take a deep breath in through the nose,” I instruct.

With effort, Preston complies.

“Hold it.”

He tries, but it is immediately expelled through his mouth.

“Try again,” I urge and he does so.

It takes several attempts, before he is in possession of enough control to be successful. With this exercise, it isn’t so much the breathing that’s important, but providing the brain with something to concentrate on, that allows it to gradually calm down. Anything to distract from the panic.

As hoped, Preston is taking deep, steady breaths and his hands have stopped trembling. His posture has slumped a little, meaning the anxiety has subsided, to be left with fatigue. His eyes have remained on mine throughout and I try to remember when I have ever kept eye contact with another for so long.

“Alright?” I eventually check, once I’m sure he has reached an acceptable level of composure.

He slowly nods and I release his face,

“Come on,” I encourage, after checking the entrance of the alleyway. “We need to move.”

I stand and wait for him to do the same, before giving him a once over. He’s a mess, with his coat partially open and tendrils of hair dangling down his clammy forehead. We can’t go anywhere with Preston in this state.

“We need to sort you out,” I say, moving closer.

My intent is not clear to Preston, at first, but, when I start doing up the clasps of his coat, he cottons on and begins to smooth back the unruly hair. If anyone saw us right now, we’d be in an incinerator faster than you could say sense offender.

When I’m satisfied my companion no longer looks as though he’s had an emotional breakdown, I check the alleyway entrance again. Thankfully, we were tucked far enough away for our little confrontation to go unnoticed. With little effort, I allow the mask of detachment to slip back down, watching Preston, as he does the same.

“Let’s go.”

 

 


	9. 9

**9.**

I did not sleep well. I’m sure the evidence of that will be present under my eyes, but there’s nothing I can do to hide the dark circles. Make up is strictly EC-10, so I must simply hope nobody pays very much attention to my face. There was too much for my mind to process for me to enjoy any slumber, as Preston and I had ended up speaking for quite some time, after his episode in the alley. When I spot him this morning, however, I am glad to see that he is far closer to resembling the Cleric he once was. At least my efforts have not been wasted.

There is another raid today, but, before I can ascertain the details, two enforcers arrive, to inform me that Vice-Council Dupont has requested my presence. Preston glances my way and I can see the concern in his gaze, but I immediately follow the officers, trying to subdue the panic rising within.

My first thought is that we may have been spotted yesterday, but I was certain nobody saw us. Perhaps Dupont simply wants to check on my progress. The elevator ride seems impossibly long and I pray for something to happen that would delay the meeting. Sadly, my plea goes unanswered and, when I reach the large double doors that open into the Vice-Council’s office, the nerves threaten to overwhelm me.

With a few deep breaths, I chase the nausea away and step into the room.

“Cleric Edwards,” Dupont announces, stood beside the large table, as he watches my entrance.

I stop a few feet away and wait, as he decides to spend our first moments together simply staring. That gaze is so unnerving and it takes a great deal of willpower not to avert my eyes. What’s he looking for? I spot my file once again resting on the desk.

“Are you well, Cleric?” he asks, a slight furrow to his brow. “You look tired.”

“I am fine, Sir,” I reply.

“Are you sure?” he checks and starts to move, inching slowly forward.

“Yes, Sir,” I insist. “It’s just been a busy few days.”

“Indeed. Are you finding the workload a little too much?”

His inquisitive eyes search mine. For what, I cannot say, but I ensure there is nothing there for him to find.

“It is more than I have been used to,” I admit. “But nothing I cannot handle. It’s simply a matter of adjusting.”

“Good, good,” he says, his eyes momentarily leaving mine, as he continues to advance towards me. Every step he takes has me wanting to match it with one backwards, but I know I must remain where I am. “I have called you here, to check on your progress. I have not yet spoken with Cleric Preston, but his partner, Brandt, has nothing but praise for you, so far.”

I recall the conversation I had with Brandt in the elevator and my skin still crawls just thinking about it. There is little worse than receiving the good opinion of people, whose aim it is to slaughter those you care about. However, such commendation does mean that my cover has not yet been blown. At least I have something to be thankful for, however bitter a taste it may leave on the tongue.

“From what I am told, you will not be required to shadow them for very much longer.” Dupont stops in front of me. “In fact, I am of a mind to promote you, Cleric.”

That surprises me. I’ve done nothing of note since being placed with the two Clerics and my performance has been middle-of-the-road, at best. I’ve assisted in arrests, completed paperwork and helped locate incriminating evidence, for Evidentiary teams to dispose of. However, I’ve yet to kill an offender since the new law was introduced and I certainly haven’t been one to alert the Tetragrammaton to any suspicious activity. I’ve left that sort of work to individuals far more dedicated to Father’s will.

So, where is all this sudden praise and attention coming from? Perhaps the ambitious Brandt simply wants me out of the way, in order to continue with whatever it is he has planned for Preston. I will admit to being glad to get away from those two for a while, although moving up the ranks is never something I had in mind. I’m happy to remain where I am, receive the small cases and endure far less scrutiny, but, as always, there is never a good way to decline an offer from the Vice-Council, because, for most Clerics, there wouldn’t ever be a reason to.

“Promotion, Sir?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “To first class.”

“To be up for consideration is truly an honour.”

“You still have a little longer left to work under Cleric Preston,” he states. “But, once your training is complete, we shall discuss it further.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Although I am relieved that this meeting was relatively trivial, I am still left feeling apprehensive. Becoming first class is definitely _not_ ideal.

“Before you leave, Cleric, there is something else I must discuss with you,” Dupont continues. “It has been brought to my attention that you expressed some concern regarding the new process for offenders.”

He begins to circle me, his movements slow and controlled. I feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web and it takes every ounce of restraint not to react to his statement. Who the Hell told him about that? It must have been Brandt, the sneaky bastard. Anything to keep himself in Father’s good graces, I see.

“Apparently, you do not approve of killing them,” he says, the tone of his voice far too pleasant and I regret ever having spoken to Preston in the back of the car that day. I should have kept my damn mouth shut! “I believe the exact word you used was “ _counterproductive_ ”?”

Dupont stops directly in front of me again, those beady eyes boring into my skull. His voice is quiet, but there is a hidden menace lying beneath the surface. “Perhaps you could elaborate?”

“Of course, Sir,” I acquiesce, somehow managing to keep my voice steady. “I simply do not see how we will locate the Resistance, if we kill offenders, without thought for the information they possess.”

“Hmm,” Dupont murmurs. “I can understand your concerns, Cleric and I agree that it may appear a little counter-intuitive, but, remember, it is not the message that is important, but our obedience to it. If the offenders see that we no longer offer any mercy, they will begin to panic. Make mistakes.” He takes a small step closer and a glint of vicious zeal flashes in his eyes. “And, once they have made enough, we can strike.”

Leaning forward, I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. “Do you understand, now?” he asks.

My throat feels dry and our current proximity repulses me. Those bright green eyes are travelling all over me, searching every inch, trying to catch me out, I’m sure. Does he subject every Cleric to this kind of treatment, or is this my punishment for questioning Father? I feel goose bumps rise on my skin and an uncomfortable cold shiver runs up my spine. I want to leave, but I’d settle simply for not being so near Dupont and the quickest way to reach that end is to answer.

Hoping my voice will not betray the fear rising inside, I speak. “I do, Sir. Thank you for clarifying.”

“It is my pleasure, Cleric.”

The words are spoken softly, slowly, but the meaning baffles me. Pleasure? What would this man know about such a word? Before I can ruminate any further, Dupont steps back and his gaze is less intense, but no less critical.

“I trust you shall come to me directly, should you have any further questions regarding Father’s law.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a warning.

“I will,” I promise, sincerely hoping he has nothing further to discuss. I’m not sure how much more of his presence I can stomach.

For what feels like hours, he just stands there, silently watching and I’m left feeling like an insect under a magnifying glass. Is he going to do anything, or just make me squirm under his imperious eye?

Eventually, Dupont’s chest rises, as he intakes a breath and I prepare myself for whatever he is going to say next.

“That will be all, Cleric.”

And, with that, I am dismissed. I have never been so happy to leave a room in my life.

**~**

The raid commenced without me and, for that, I am grateful. Energy is becoming rather difficult to come by nowadays, as I have so much to focus on, and babysitting Preston through his transition to fully functional human being doesn’t help. I can only hope he doesn’t make any more mistakes, such as eradicating an _entire_ sweeper team. I’ll have to remember not to piss him off.

When my Cleric duties are finally finished for the day, I want nothing more than to dive into my bed, but the Underground beckons. Now that things are progressing so quickly, I can no longer keep my visits so infrequent. Daily trips to the Freedom Reading Room are now mandatory, another reason my threatened promotion is so troublesome.

Leaving the Tetragrammaton, I head quickly for my car, hoping I don’t get accosted by anyone else and wait patiently in the driver’s seat for Preston. When he eventually climbs into the front passenger side of the vehicle, I’m preparing myself to make some kind of small talk, even though the practice is alien to me, but one look at his face silences me. No need to ask where he’s been and the knowledge does little to improve the foul mood Dupont has left me in. Did nothing Jurgen said sink in? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Preston _wanted_ to be caught.

The short drive to the Freedom Reading Room remains quiet, but, when we reach our destination, I decide it’s better to get whatever he’s bottling inside out in the open. A distraught Cleric in a room full of rebels isn’t an ideal scenario.

“You saw Mary,” I state. Preston doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “And did you achieve what you set out to do? Besides rousing even further suspicion for yourself, of course.”

Preston catches my tone and starts eyeing me quizzically. His mood seems no better than mine, so this conversation could get interesting.

“I needed to see her,” he says.

“No, you _wanted_ to see her,” I correct, sharply. “The only thing you _need_ to do is start using that brain of yours.”

The Cleric’s in no mood for criticism. “Doesn’t it bother you _at all_?” he asks, tone equally harsh. “She’s about to die for you! How can you just sit back and let it happen? How can you be so-”

“Cold?” I interject, switching off the car’s engine, before shifting to face him more fully. “Like _them_?” I gesture to the bodies visible through the windscreen, milling about mechanically. “I am nothing like them, Preston. I’d do anything to save her, anything at all…except _betray_ her. To risk a rescue now, at this juncture, would jeopardise everything we’ve worked for- everything _she’s_ worked for. Whether we like it or not, she’s a martyr. For all of us.”

Preston doesn’t like my response. “But, you don’t understand-”

“I don’t?” I challenge, my eyebrows rising indignantly. “Do you know how many comrades I’ve had to watch burn in the name of so-called justice? How many times I’ve watched them get mown down and been unable to do anything to stop it? Don’t even begin to lecture me, _Cleric_. We’ve come too far and sacrificed too much, to let your infatuation with a woman you’ve only just met ruin it all!”

The words were callous and, as I slam shut the car door, know I’m being more than a little unfair, but my patience is wearing very thin and the stress of everything is having a serious effect on me. Another bout on the Kata Floor is in order, I think.

Several people are already waiting, sat around the wooden table, when we enter the Underground and all their eyes fall to the man tailing me. They must have been informed of Jurgen’s conversation with Preston and are eagerly awaiting the recently converted Cleric’s answer. To be honest, I’m wondering, too, as he still hadn’t come to a decision, by the time we parted ways last night.

There’s only one seat available and I let Preston take it, preferring a spot by the wall, out of everyone’s line of sight. I’ve had enough attention for one day. He’s the one they want to speak to, anyway.

Pleasantries are forgotten, as everybody wants to get straight to the heart of the matter.

“The floor is manned by 50 sweepers, maybe more,” Preston says, having been asked to give a detailed description of Father’s residence.

“What about an audience?” Jurgen queries, leaning over the table beside him, hopefulness shining in his eyes. “Can you arrange to meet with him?”

Preston shakes his head. “Father's never given a single audience since the upheaval. The danger of assassination is too great.”

“They trained you your whole life to fight these kinds of odds,” Jurgen says encouragingly, referring to the massive security detail ever-present around Libria’s leader.

Hesitation is once again present in the Cleric’s eyes. “Even if I could,” he replies. “Even if I could make it through, what guarantee is there it would accomplish anything, that anything would be different?”

His question is one asked by almost every single person, when they cease the dose. A life of daily indoctrination and propaganda is a hard thing to break away from. It doesn’t stop several of the offenders in the room becoming defensive, though, worried the Cleric may suddenly decide to switch loyalty back to Father.

Jurgen leans closer to Preston. “We have a network that's larger than you could ever imagine,” he explains. “The instant word comes that Father is dead, that the Council is leaderless, bombs that have already been planted will be set off at Prozium clinics and factories around Libria. If we can succeed in disrupting the supply for even one day- _one day_ -” His impassioned eyes flash brightly. “-our cause will be won by human nature itself.”

The leader’s words inject an air of affirmation into the room and I spot the posture of a few straighten. Preston, however, isn’t so easily convinced.

“What about war?” he counters. “The everyday cruelties that are all gone now?”

“Replaced by the touch of Grammaton,” Jurgen says, simply, having found the winning element of the argument. “Will you do it?”

Preston doesn’t answer right away and the room waits in anxious silence, as the war between morality and duty wages for the last time inside the Cleric. Remembering my previous offer of attempting to assassinate Father, I’m now glad not to be in Preston’s position, especially so soon after ceasing the dose. Despite having berated him not so long ago, if put in his position, I doubt I would have coped anywhere near as well. And that’s when a little guilt starts seeping in.

A long exhalation signals the end of Preston’s internal struggle and the urge to lean closer, as he gives his answer is irresistible.

“Yes.”

The relief is evident on Jurgen’s face, but it doesn’t last long. “Can you?”

Preston’s eyes lock with the Resistance Leader for the first time since entering.

“I don't know.”

**~**

Inside the car once again, silence accompanies Preston and I as before, except there is a little less tension between us now. For him, today has been a very important day and his task is now immeasurably harder. For my part, I’m still thinking about the guilt, that’s weighing heavy on my chest. I really shouldn’t have snapped earlier. How many mistakes did I make when I first quit Prozium? And there was far less pressure on me, at the time.

We park outside the Tetragrammaton and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I really don’t like feeling like an asshole.

The Cleric beside me reaches for the door handle.

“Preston,” I call quietly.

He stops and looks at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. I’m so awful at this, that anyone would think _I’m_ the one who’s only just stopped dosing.

“I…” I lick my lips, having not thought out what I’ll say, before opening my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

_There, I’ve said it_ , I think, letting out a deep breath. From the corner of my eye, I see him watching me, his features arranging into an expression of confusion and I know I’m going to have to elaborate.

“For earlier,” I clarify. “What I said to you…it wasn’t fair.”

Preston remains silent and I wonder if he feels as awkward as I do. After all, he’s newer to this than me. Perhaps it’s the Cleric within us, the training and lifestyle leaving us unable to process emotion, even when we fully embrace its effects.

Looking down at the stitching on my leather gloves, I start fiddling with a loose strand, as I continue. “I know how you feel about Mary and…and I hate what’s happening to her just as much as you. When we were detaining her, I tried so hard to think of some way to get her out of there…but there wasn’t.” My lips curve into a smirk. “I was impressed by your reflexes, though.”

Preston knows I’m referring to the way he knocked Brandt’s weapon out of Mary’s trajectory.

“I…” he begins, his voice as hesitant as mine. What a fucking pair we make! “I don’t even know why I did it. I’d only just met her.”

“It’s hard to be a ruthless killing machine, when empathy comes on the scene,” I remark and he nods in agreement.

Another bout of silence stands between us and it is far more companionable than ever before. Neither of us makes a move to exit the vehicle and a random memory emerges in my mind, unbidden, eliciting a quiet chuckle.

“You know, I ended up kissing the first detainee I met, after ceasing the dose.”

My eyes quickly glance at the Cleric beside me, to see a look of shock on his face.

“Why?” he asks.

Eyes back on the gloves, I shrug. “No idea,” I admit. “I was just so overwhelmed by what was happening. He was in the midst of telling me what an evil piece of shit I was when I did it.”

I’ve never actually told anyone that tale before and another chuckle erupts. If I’m honest, I don’t really know why I’m laughing, as the story hardly has a happy ending, but the situation just seems so ridiculous, when I look back on it.

“What happened to him?” Preston queries.

I inhale deeply. This part of the story is less humorous. “He…” I pause, aware of the parallels between my situation and his. “He was incinerated a few hours later.”

The silence is more sombre, now and there are to be no more chuckles from me today.

“I’m sorry,” Preston eventually says, softly.

For a little while longer, we sit there, until we both sense that we have reached the end of our conversation. He reaches for the door handle again and pushes it open.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, finally looking at Preston.

“Goodnight,” he replies, and, for the first time since meeting, we share a small smile.


	10. 10

**10.**

My apartment really can be quite a dismal, depressing place sometimes. Well, most of the time, actually. With its typically Librian minimalistic décor, the furniture lacking any colour, there is very little to stimulate the senses. This isn’t a problem for the average citizen, but, when in a position such as mine, it can get rather mind numbing, staring at the same, drab scenery every evening. It’s no wonder so many sense offenders choose to have hidden rooms, or compartments, in which to hide their contraband. Although sorely tempted more than a few times, I’ve never done so myself. My double life doesn’t allow for such frivolities, because, if even the faintest suspicion was pointed my way, enforcers would be here in a flash, tearing the place apart for incriminating evidence and I can’t allow any to be found. No, for the most part, I am simply entertained by my thoughts, which can be more of a curse than a blessing at times.

There is, however, one guilty pleasure I allow myself. Generally saved for the evenings in which I would otherwise succumb to the excruciating black cloud of depression, it is located in my bedroom. If necessary, it can be concealed, so the risk it poses is relatively low.

The item in question is, in fact, a window, yet it isn’t the window itself that provides the entertainment, but the view it offers. Usually, the windows of Libria are all covered in translucent white paper, but I have removed it from this one, keeping the entire sheet intact in my wardrobe, to replace, should the need arise. On particularly bad days, I can spend hours just watching the scenery. The formation of clouds in the sky can fascinate me, or the way the sun paints an array of hues in the sky as it sets. When it rains, I watch the patterns drawn by water droplets, as they hit the glass.

Tonight is a good night. Well, as good as any night can get, I suppose and I’m lying on the sofa in the lounge, humming to myself a piece of music I first heard Jurgen play several years ago. It’s a classical piece, composed by Edward Elgar, called Nimrod. The first time that music reached my ears, I was left in tears and ran out of the room, scared and confused by what was happening to me. Now, I can listen and feel nothing but fondness and contentment.

Just as I reach a particularly favourite part of the piece, a noise interrupts and has me instantly sitting bolt upright.

In the decade I have lived in my apartment, I cannot recall a single instance when another person entered it, invited or otherwise. Social gatherings were nonexistent in Libria. What would be the point? And, in my position, I couldn’t just go inviting fellow rebels round for a drink. As Jurgen had explained to Preston, some of us were not able to enjoy our emotional freedom in the same way as everyone else.

So, why was there a knock at the door? My pulse immediately soars and my eyes flit to the broken screen opposite. The window may be easy to fix, but that? Not so much. There’s a second knock and I know I won’t be able to ignore it. If it’s enforcers at the door, they’ll know I’m here., If not working, where else would a Cleric be?

Standing, I prepare myself, slipping on the mask of neutrality that has served me so well over the years. The thudding of my heart against my chest intensifies with each step taken towards the door and, upon reaching it, my hand rests on the handle for a moment. With one last deep breath, I turn it and the door opens.

“Preston?”

For a long moment, I simply stand there, gawping in disbelief at the Cleric before me. The shock quickly turns to irritation, though and I grab his sleeve, before yanking him inside and hastily shutting the door.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” I demand, facing him.

Preston doesn’t answer and, as I start to actually take in the man’s appearance, I see that he isn’t his usually immaculate self. For a start, he’s not wearing his overcoat and its nowhere about his person, meaning he left it wherever he came here from. Then, there’s his hair, which looks as though it’s been hurriedly brushed back, in an attempt to look presentable. The biggest clue, however, is the nasty cut adorning his bottom lip. Its fresh, angry and swollen and helps to paint a very sorry picture, indeed.

The irritation now turns to concern.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I…” Preston begins, although he seems unable to gather his thoughts. Outwardly, his demeanour is relatively calm and composed, but, through the cracks I see a storm raging.

Whilst waiting patiently for some sort of explanation, my mind is already connecting the dots, remembering the event that was scheduled for today and I feel a stab of grief puncture my heart.

Mary.

“They…they killed her,” he eventually says, his voice breaking just a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, automatically, knowing it is in no way any consolation for how he’s feeling at this moment.

“They burned her,” he continues. “Brandt was there…he sold me out…but he’s gone now…”

Preston isn’t speaking in fully coherent sentences and it leaves me confused. Brandt was where, at Mary’s execution? Is he the one who sold Preston out? And, _where_ has he gone, exactly?

“I wasn’t sure where to go.”

Preston goes silent again, his eyes on me, almost as though begging me to fix this. What can _I_ do? I’ve never seen him look so… _vulnerable_ before. It takes a moment for me to gather my own thoughts, as I try to prioritise. First things first, he needs to sit down.

“Preston,” I say. “Take a seat. I’m going to, um…I’ll get you a drink…and we need to sort out that.” I point to my bottom lip, in reference to his wound. “And, then you can explain what’s going on properly.”

Again, Preston gives no answer.

“Okay?” I prompt.

He nods absently, before moving to the sofa and carefully planting himself down. I scan the kitchen counter, to see what beverages are on offer. I have a feeling he needs something strong, but the only thing I have that fits the bill is coffee. One look at the Cleric tells me that caffeine is the last thing he needs, so it’s an unfortunate choice between tea and water. Had he gone to the Underground, they could have given him something far more suitable. Jurgen has a collection of whiskeys that I’ve always wanted to try, but, after seeing the effect it has on a few of the regulars, have so far abstained.

In the end, I decide on tea. It may not have any kick, but the act of drinking will, at least, offer Preston’s brain a little occupation. Whilst making the drink, my eyes keep flitting over to him, to find him sat completely still, elbows resting on knees, his eyes fixed straight ahead. It leaves me wondering if he’s going to be alright.

When the drink is ready, I place it on the table in front of the sofa, before heading to the bathroom, in order to retrieve my medical kit. Upon my return, I discover that the Cleric hasn’t moved an inch. Taking the seat beside him seems to grasp some of his attention and his eyes fall to the box on my lap.

“I’m going to clean that up now,” I tell him and he turns his torso to face me.

Preston doesn’t even flinch, when the sharp antiseptic hits the raw flesh and I wonder if Brandt was the culprit for the wound. As I clean and fix the lip, it dawns on me just how much things have changed, in such a short space of time. How different the man before me is now, compared to the stoic Cleric I worked with a few weeks ago. With each encounter, I’ve felt a layer of my revulsion strip away and I wonder if, depending on circumstances, it would be nice to have another sense offender in the same position as I. With Errol gone, I’ve felt even more alone than usual.

Thoughts of Partridge remind me of what ultimately fuelled my hatred towards Preston and, despite the changes and the remorse he obviously feels, it is still a barrier I cannot bring myself to let down. Perhaps, one day, when all this is a distant memory, I will be able to forgive him.

With the cut treated, I leave the room to put the medical kit back in its place, before returning to sit on the sofa. Giving Preston a last moment to sort himself out, I attempt to get a better idea of what happened.

“So, you decided to see Mary a last time.”

Preston nods, his hands clasped together.

“Why?” I ask, ensuring my tone is gentle. Surely he knew it wasn’t going to help anything.

Preston watches his hands, as they wring together for a moment and swallows, before answering.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to stay away…” A pause. “I was going through surveillance archives, but…it wasn’t Mary I was looking for. My wife was arrested and incinerated for sense offence four years ago. She wasn’t discovered by me; I didn’t even realise.”

Preston’s eyes have become distant and I wonder if he is even talking to me anymore, or simply thinking out loud.

“I was there at her execution,” he continues. “I saw myself stood between two enforcement officers, watching her as she slowly entered the incinerator. She was the woman I married. The mother of my children. And I did nothing. I felt… _nothing_.” His eyes turn to me and I can see the moisture gathering. “I couldn’t let the same thing happen to Mary. I tried to stop it, but it was too late.” His voice drops to a barely audible whisper, as he looks straight ahead. “Too late.”

Preston brings his hands up to his face, the tip of his nose resting against the knuckles and I can see he is trying to compose himself. Watching the Cleric unravel leaves me at a loss as to what I should do. I had no idea about Preston’s past and am completely unprepared for the information I’ve just received. Finding out about the private life of a colleague was never a habit of mine and this reminds me of why.

For a very long time after ceasing the dose, coming to terms with my career as a Cleric was a difficult thing to do. To know that I had taken lives and destroyed countless others was a terrible burden to bear. How must Preston feel? How must it have been to watch that footage again, from such a different perspective? I don’t want to even comprehend what he’s been through and, once again, guilt rears its ugly head. All this time, I’ve watched him turn from a machine into an actual person, getting frustrated with his mistakes and have, in many ways, been rather selfish with my concerns. I haven’t even _considered_ the depth of his struggle and now he’s looking at me with those eyes in such a way that makes me want to blow every single Prozium factory out of existence.

“Brandt found me outside the building, crying on the steps,” Preston says, his words muffled slightly by his hands. “He’s known for a while, but that just confirmed his suspicions. He dragged me back inside and paraded me around as some sort of sense offending ragdoll.”

With a deep breath, Preston’s hands fall and he straightens himself up to conclude the tale. “The enforcers came and took me to Dupont. Brandt was so proud of himself. The first time I met him, he said that being placed with me was going to be a career-making move and how right he was. Except, I don’t think he expected his career to take such a sudden nosedive. He thought he’d been so clever, using the trace of my gun against me, but, as I said, I’ve had an idea of his plans for a while. So, I switched weapons. Back at the raid in Sector Seven. And, when the trace was performed, it wasn’t _my_ gun that killed the sweeper team, it was _his_.”

A chuckle of disbelief exits my lips. “So, what’s happened to Brandt?”

This time, when Preston looks my way, I see some of the sadness gone and, remarkably, find it replaced with something akin to smugness.

“He’s been arrested,” he informs me. “For sense offence.”

Before I even realise it, a smile is curving my lips and I have to say I’m rather impressed. Preston isn’t as careless as I thought. I think back to the raid and try to pinpoint the moment the switch happened, but can’t. My mind was pretty preoccupied at the time.

“So, Dupont…he doesn’t suspect a thing?”

“I don’t think so,” Preston replies. “A search was carried out, but they didn’t find anything. I was worried that they’d discover the unused vials of Prozium hidden behind the bathroom mirror, but, when I checked, they’d gone.”

I frown in wonder. “Where?”

“My son, Robbie, had them.”

My eyes widen in alarm. “But, then, how-”

“He didn’t turn me in,” the Cleric interjects, correctly guessing my latest query. If the boy found the vials, how is his father even able to have this conversation with me, right now? By rights, Preston should be dead.

“He didn’t?”

“No. It turns out that he and Lisa haven’t been taking their doses, either.”

“For how long?” This story just gets more and more unbelievable.

“Since their mother died.”

I take a moment to process what he’s telling me. “So, for four years, your kids have been sense offenders.”

Preston nods.

“And you didn’t even know?” I let out another chuckle. “Y’know, for one of Tetragrammaton’s top Clerics, you’re pretty lousy at your job.”

Surpisingly, given the tone of our conversation when it began, Preston laughs. It’s short and quiet, but it’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed this reaction from him. I’m not used to such an arrangement of his features and, at first, find it a little weird. But, the more I watch, the more I find it suits him. The smile manages to take a good few years off, too.

Continuing to study the smile, I see that the cut has opened a little, releasing more blood. It’s only a small amount and, without any thought, I pull the sleeve of my top over my thumb and reach up to brush it away. When my mind finally catches up, it gives my stomach the same kick as when I’d attached the polygraph wire to his neck. This exact same action had only been performed a few minutes ago, but, this time, the contact feels different. Why does it feel different? And why am I not stopping?

Before I can even contemplate an answer, Preston’s voice commands my focus.

“Why did you stop dosing?” he asks.

The question surprises me and I hesitate, unsure of whether to share my story. It’s not particularly pleasant and there’s only one other person aware of it. So far, Jurgen has managed to keep my secret. For a moment, I’m on the verge of telling Preston to mind his own business, but then I think of what he’s already shared, the trust he’s placing with me simply by coming here.

My hand falls away from his face and my eyes drop to the floor, before I decide to stand. What I’m about to say is a little too personal for me to remain so close beside him.

“I killed my father,” I reply and wait for his reaction. When the silence stretches on, I brave a glance in his direction and see him simply watching me, waiting for more. Am I really going to do this? Bare my soul to John Preston of all people?

Apparently, so. “I was seventeen,” I explain, my back to him again. “Moving my way up through the Cleric training programme, eager to please.” I roll my eyes at my own naivety. “My mother died when I was little, so it was just the two of us. Well, so I _thought_ , until I caught him one night sneaking a woman into the apartment. Of course, I did what any good citizen would do.” A note of bitterness creeps into my voice. “I reported him and, within an hour, he was carted away by enforcement officers.” My voice lowers. “By the end of the week, he was tried and incinerated for Sense Crimes.”

I let the newly released information hang in the air and it leaves a weird feeling in my chest, but I promised Preston an answer and, now that I’ve started, there’s no choice left but to finish.

“Like you were for your wife, I had to be there for his execution and, when I got home, it suddenly dawned on me that I was alone. Everyone was gone. Something in me snapped and I ended up throwing every vial of Prozium I could find out the nearest window.”

I haven’t spoken about my father for nigh on a decade and I’d assumed that burying the memories as deeply as I have would make it easier. The tear rolling down my cheek proves otherwise. I wipe it away and look at the dampness it has left on my fingertips. Once again, laughter escapes my lips, but, this time, its bitter.

“I suppose we all have our own fucked up histories to overcome,” I remark. “The only consolation I can find is that, although what I’ve done is terrible, it wasn’t entirely my own doing. The person to truly blame is Father and his glorious “opiate of the masses”.” I catch myself, realising just how sour I’ve become. “Christ,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to become such a downer.”

I’m scared to look Preston’s way again, for fear of what he might think of me.

“He won’t get away with it.”

The closeness of Preston’s voice startles me into spinning round and I see him stood less than a foot from me. His demeanour has changed, from dejected to determined and I can see a fire burning in those green eyes. Their intensity is hard to look away from and I don’t even bother trying. I can feel my stomach giving that annoying kick again and I cross my arms over my waist, in a vain effort to stop it. John Preston is famed for knowing when a person is feeling. Well, I can only hope that skill doesn’t extend to knowing _what_.

“No one else should have to go through what we have.”

 _We_. Dear Lord, it’s not until he says the word that I realise just how similar we are.

“I will find Father and I will stop him.”

Such a promise and I have never, in my life, wished for something to be more true. Preston is our only hope and, with the way he’s managed to frame Brandt, I find myself, for the first time, actually believing he could do it.

“I hope so,” I reply. “But, how will you do it? He never gives an audience to anyone.”

“I’m going to give Father what he wants,” Preston reveals. “I’m going to give him the Resistance.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Remember](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443543) by [Solziv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solziv/pseuds/Solziv)




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